One Who Waits 1 - The Nomad Boy Who Wasn't

[zakky]

“The One Who Waits?” Shin-ju whispered.

Everyone in the Greater Court knelt unmoving. Jared stared at the blue rock in front of the Taishou with wide, apprehensive eyes. Yoriko’s head was bowed, eyes raised, moving between the rock and her father. Akira glanced at his superior, his calm face curious.

“Yes,” the Taishou replied. “Have you heard of it, young Nomad?”

Shin-ju fidgeted. “No, I haven’t, Taishou,” he answered.

“That is all right. I am sure she has.”

Everyone but Jared turned to look at Yoriko. It took a few seconds before the girl looked up, realizing that she was the only female in the Greater Court at the time, and that the Taishou was referring to her. Quivering, she held the great warrior’s stare.

The Taishou closed his eyes and nodded his head.

“Hai,” Yoriko timidly said, acknowledging the unasked question.

She spoke, and they listened.

“In all of the traditional myths regarding the creation of the earth, there is a legend which appears in each of them. Some portions of this legend vary in every version, but the theme is always the same—in the end of the world, a great cataclysm will occur.

“In the Holy Scriptures, for instance, it is said that there shall be a battle between the forces of good and evil, in which the forces of good shall triumph. God shall come out of the heavens and judge each person that has set foot on earth. The worthy shall be taken with Him into his heavenly Kingdom, while the damned shall be sent to the Devil’s domain to suffer for eternity.

“This the Holy Church calls Judgment Day.

“Old Norse Tradition also has an account of the end of the universe, wherein the gods and the souls of brave slain warriors shall fight the last battle against evil giants, monsters, and the cursed dead. In this tradition, however, the forces of good shall lose, and the Nine Worlds shall be destroyed by fire. Afterwards, a new earth will rise up from the ocean. Mankind shall start over. The sons of the gods will begin a new race of divinities. This new world, cleansed of evil, shall endure forever.

“This is the Twilight of the Gods… Ragnarok.”

The Taishou nodded in approval. “Shousa,” he said, turning to Akira, “Your daughter is bright. You must be very proud of her.”

Akria bowed. “Thank you, Taishou. Indeed I am, that she is growing up in a way that you find approving.”

Shin-ju stared at Yoriko for a few seconds before he spoke. “Wow. Where’d you learn all of that? I thought you never went to school.”

The girl smiled shyly. “I just read a lot.”

“But who is the One Who Waits?” Shin-ju asked, loudly enough to be heard by the Taishou.

The Taishou turned his eyes to Shin-ju, then to Yoriko. The girl nodded, and she resumed her story.

“In both traditions there is an unusual story that does not seem to belong. At first, historians thought it was only an insignificant side-story. But the fact that it appears in both traditional myths suggests otherwise.

“As you might know, much of the Holy Scriptures is composed of the writings of prophets, ascetics, and chroniclers who lived in the past 10,000 years. A number of these people make some mention of the One Who Waits in their writings. The information is very vague, but the Holy Church believes that the One Who Waits is a mythical figure whose purpose is to bring balance to the world by sacrificing itself to destroy the forces of evil.

“In Old Norse Tradition, the One Who Waits is a being who also brings balance by destroying the forces of evil, allowing the new, perfect world to begin. Again, our knowledge of him is very limited, but we do know this much—in both traditions, the fate of the new world is hinged on whether the One Who Waits arrives, and whether he, or it, succeeds.

“The fact that this mythical being merely waits for its time to come into existence—when everything else in the universe has been set well into motion, when the Nine Worlds are deep in their last hours—earned it its name… the One Who Waits.”

Shin-ju was staring into space, deep in thought.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” he finally said. “The Legend of the One Who Waits doesn’t fit in.”

“Indeed,” the Taishou answered. “It is a 10,000 year old enigma. Over the millennia, historians and scholars have tried to eliminate it from the writing and telling of world history. Only the fact that this mystery appears in some way in all of the traditional myths, not only the two mentioned by Yoriko-chan, has kept it stubbornly in our knowledge.”

Shin-ju's eyes shifted to the rock in front of the Taishou. “Then… what is the rock’s significance?”

The Taishou laughed darkly. “We do not know,” he answered. “Do you see the tiny etchings on the rock’s front face? They are known as Nordic Runes. What they mean is lost in time, for none now live to remember it.”

The Taishou laid his fingers on the rock and turned it slowly. He stopped when a large Nordic Rune on the rock’s face came into his view.

“Save, perhaps, for this one Rune.”

Akira, Yoriko, and Shin-ju leaned forward to look at it.

“This Rune appears in all of the Old Norse writings regarding the One Who Waits… and nowhere else.”

“So there’s a connection between the rock and the Legend,” Shin-ju observed.

“It would seem so,” the Taishou agreed.

• • •

Then Shin-ju noticed Jared. The Merchant was perspiring.

“Jared, you OK?” Shin-ju asked. “You're soaking wet.”

Jared looked up and caught the Taishou’s stare.

“I have a hinting of what you are trying to keep secret, Jared Wycrow,” the Taishou said calmly. “But perhaps it is best for your friends if the testimony came from your lips and not mine.”

Jared swallowed—he knew he had to explain himself. His friends listened as his story unfolded.

“I’m sure most of you have heard of the Goldraiders. They were a guild of Alchemists who, almost one thousand years ago, sought a mythical material called the Philosopher’s Stone. It was a legendary material that supposedly held the power to transmute ordinary lead into pure gold. It was a grand search, lasting over eight centuries and spanning four continents before the Goldraiders lost their influence over the art of Alchemy in Midgard and soon disbanded.

“These days, people look back at the Goldraiders’ quest as being a more spiritual and philosophical venture than one for power and wealth. Even today, gold may be traded—or transmuted, if you will—into any of man’s needs. The Philosopher’s Stone is now merely seen as something that one must seek in order to find true meaning in life—or, as the Goldraiders themselves would put it—an end-in-itself…”

Shin-ju was listening with interest. “You mean the Philosopher’s Stone didn’t really exist?” he blurted out.

Jared shrugged without lifting his eyes. “Well, up until today, no one knows of any material capable of transmuting lead to gold, so I guess the Goldraiders never really found such a stone. But at one time last century, Midgard was abuzz with rumors about the Alchemists finally finding it and keeping it somewhere in their ranks.

“Naturally, the leaders of Midgard back then wanted to know whether the rumors were true. King Tristan I, Shogun Keisuke Yamagachi, the Archmage of Geffen… heck, even the Sultan of Morroc jumped into the fray, trying to gain the favor of the Goldraiders and earn knowledge of the secret. The King and the Shogun even got into a few public squabbles over the whole thing. Sure, Prontera and Payon are bound under an Alliance, but you know how politicians are.

“But almost as soon as the Goldraiders’ popularity skyrocketed, it plummeted. The Alchemists have always been known to interact with Elves, and no one seemed to mind until rumors of the finding circumnavigated Midgard. It soon became clear that the Goldraiders seemed to favor the company of the Elves over their Human kin, and rumors—new ones—surfaced, indicating that the Philosopher’s Stone was instead entrusted to the care of the Elves.”

Jared sighed. “Humans are the most jealous creatures in the world.”

“But were the rumors true?” Shin-ju asked.

“No one knows, really. But the rumors did the damage, and soon both Goldraiders and Elves were looked upon with distrust in Midgard. The Alchemists soon lost their power, and members soon started leaving the guild. The Goldraiders officially ceased to exist eighty years ago—1314 SR.”

Shin-ju then turned his eyes back to the blue rock in front of the Taishou. “And… the thing you couldn’t tell me… us… is?”

The Taishou answered for Jared.

“You found a similar rock in Al de Baran?” the old man drawled.

Jared nodded, closing his eyes in fear. “My great-grandfather, James J. Wycrow, was known to be a Goldraider. My Trading Post in Al de Baran used to be his. Up until seven weeks ago, I was content running its ins and outs and quietly making a living. Then, early one morning, I received a visit from a mysterious messenger—an Elf—who handed me a set of papers and told me that it was a gift from James.”

“The papers were a set of directions which, to my amazement, led me to a hidden basement in the Trading Post. The Elf helped me decipher parts of James’s message until the directions led us to a small chamber that looked… strangely medieval.

“There was a podium in the middle of that chamber, and on it sat… a smooth, three-faced gray rock.”

Everyone’s eyes, including the Taishou’s, grew wide at this statement.

That was the rock he was holding on to in the lake! Shin-ju thought madly, remembering Jared’s beloved rock.

“James’s last message was cryptic,” Jared finished uneasily. “He wrote that with the knowledge of the Stone’s location came the responsibility of a thousand years to keep it secret. It was not the Goldraiders’ last wish that the stones’ locations be lost forever, but that they be protected by those its keepers saw worthy.”

“This stone is the Philosopher’s Stone?” the words escaped Yoriko’s lips weakly.

“I don’t know,” Jared said. “But somehow word got out that I had found something of great value belonging to the Goldraiders. It wasn’t long before I was a celebrity in the rumor mill, and soon Old Occultists were at my door.”

“The Occultists found out about it?” Shin-ju wanted to know.

“Apparently,” the Merchant concurred. “They said Garrione would give me anything—wealth, power, land—in exchange for the Philosopher’s Stone. I kept telling them that I knew nothing of such a stone, all the while hoping I could convince myself with the same lie. The whole affair made me feel ill at ease. I was hoping the Old Occultists would just give up and leave—but I realized too late that they were serious. Dead serious. They took the Elf messenger hostage and told me to hand the Stone over as ransom. That was almost two weeks ago.”

“What did you do then?” this time, it was Akira’s turn to ask.

“At first I thought I should just hand the Stone over and get this whole fiasco done with!” Jared rattled, his fists clenching at the prospect. “But then I realized that the Elf-messenger herself had told me that nothing—not even her own life in danger—should allow me to let the Stone fall into the wrong hands. And believe me, I know Garrione’s hands are as wrong as they can be.”

The Taishou nodded as Jared finished. “Very well,” he concluded. “I will then give the order to mobilize five hundred Payon Knights from our Garrisons at—”

“No!” Jared screamed. “No, Taishou—I’ve changed my mind. If we attack the Occultists now, Garrione might spread the word about the Stone’s location!”

“Hey may already have,” the Taishou insisted. “That is why we must cull this quickly.”

“But there must be another way!”

“Wycrow,” the old man said calmly. “This isn’t about the Stone, is it?”

At that, Jared had no answer. He lowered his eyes from the Taishou’s stare and closed his mouth.

“What is her name?” the Taishou’s question came.

Jared shook his head in quiet shame. “Napolde,” he answered. “Napolde Linwelyn.”

A slight smile etched itself on the old man’s wrinkled face. “Worry not, young Merchant,” the old man said. “Garrione is a warrior who thinks too much of his own life. He will safely give Miss Linwelyn up to us once he agrees to my terms—a deal which even the supreme leader of the Old Occultists would not dare refuse.”

“Truly?” the Merchant asked incredulously, looking up. “You can do that?”

“I can do that and more,” the Taishou said, allowing himself to chuckle a bit. “Our methods are stealthy, but be assured that the Shogunate has ways to negotiate with elements such as the Occultists. In any case, five hundred soldiers shall be mobilized as a failsafe to my plan.”

The old man took the blue rock and carefully placed it in the folds of his Hakama. “You are a fellow keeper of the Stone, Jared Wycrow. And for this, you have the protection of the Shogunate. The soldiers shall be decommissioned from the Sograt Garrisons tomorrow morning. It would be wisest for you to follow a day after tomorrow, when it is most likely that the violence, if any, in Prontera and Al de Baran will have abated. Then you will be able to enter the Machine City unmolested to claim Napolde and your stolen assets.”

Jared nodded, scarcely believing his fortune. “Thank you, wise Taishou,” he said meekly. “We shall do as you say.”

Akira and the Taishou watched as the Jared, Shin-ju and Yoriko filed out the doors of the Greater Court.

“Be safe,” the Taishou called after them.

[~*[Y]uNa*~]

FINALLY..
i've been waiting for SO long since u last disappeared the other time u posted here.. its good that u're back to update this fic.. its been too long.. heh..

[Kyotsyu]

Great update. Liked it.

[zakky]

Chapter Five

A Name, An Identity

Akira saw apprehension and bewilderment in the faces of Jared, Shin-ju, and his daughter Yoriko when he emerged from the Shogunate chambers. The three had been waiting for him at one of the waiting halls, and the Shousa sensed that not a word was exchanged among them ever since they left the Greater Court audience.

“Well, my friend, you never cease to amaze me,” Akira said, laughing softly as he stepped towards Jared. “There never seems to be a dull moment with you around.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Jared exhaled, relieved at seeing Akira back into a casual Hakama and not a ceremonial one. “Though I really have to apologize that I kept so many secrets from you…”

Jared turned around to glance at Shin-ju and Yoriko.

“Oh, think nothing of it,” Akira scoffed. “The Philosopher’s Stone? Goldraiders? As you have recounted yourself, Jared, they were merely symbols. Rumors. Stories that stimulate the minds of poets and little children. None of it can be real.”

The Merchant sighed, turning to lead his friends from the Shogunate Halls. “That may be so,” he muttered grimly. “But Garrione, the Occultists, and Napolde are very real to me.”

• • •

The four walked down the stone steps of the Shogunate Halls and stepped onto the large, square-shaped courtyard in front of it. The cool evening wind blew through their hair and silk robes, and the clear night sky greeted them with winking stars.

Shin-ju sniffed the air, noting the scent of pine that he had grown to like ever since he set foot in Prontera. The tall, pleasant-smelling evergreens were hard to find in the Capital, but they seemed to sprout like mushrooms over the Payon Highlands. It seemed as though Payon was built in and around the forest—the scent was soothingly everywhere. It almost made the boy forget what had transpired in the Greater Court audience only minutes ago.

“So,” Akira piped up, trying to enliven the bleak atmosphere. “The audience ended a little sooner than we had expected. It is still only a quarter-to-eight. What do you intend to do, Jared?”

Jared took a deep breath. “Seriously, Akira, I just wanna go back to the Inn. I’m too tired and too bothered to be doing anything else.”

“Of course, of course. Then we shall make our way back without delay.”

At that, Shin-ju and Yoriko exchanged quick, nervous glances at each other.

“Um… Papa?”

Akira looked down at his daughter, who took him by the sleeve and led him away, as if wanting to talk about something away from the ears of their guests.

“Say, uh… Jared, can I have a second?”

Likewise, Shin-ju put his hand on the Merchant’s shoulder and led him away. Jared and Akira looked at each other as they walked apart, puzzled.

“What is it, Yoriko?” Akira asked his daughter, bending down.

The girl stood on her tiptoes to whisper in her father’s ear. “Can I go out with Shin-ju-kun tonight?”

Akira froze.

• • •

“You’re going out on a what?” Jared asked, stupefied.

“Ssh, not so loud!” Shin-ju whispered back. “Yoriko and I are gonna go out on a… you know… tonight. Is that okay with you?”

Akira and Jared looked up and exchanged glances belonging to two senile old men.

The Merchant turned back to Shin-ju. “Seriously, man! You’re only thirteen!”

“It’s not what you think!” the boy countered. “We just wanna check out the Festival!”

Jared smirked dubiously. “You’re not taking my green jokes too seriously, are you?”

“Come on, Jared,” Shin-ju deadpanned, annoyed that the discussion was taking too long. “Yes, no, I dunno, it’s that simple.”

“Okay, okay,” the Merchant chuckled. “As long as both of you are back at the Rest by ten-thirty.”

The boy made a face as they walked back towards Akira and Yoriko. “Ten-thirty?” he carped quietly. “Cinderella got until midnight.”

Jared shrugged. “Well, Cinderella wasn’t thirteen years old.”

• • •

The two pairs walked towards each other.

“So, Akira, my old friend!” Jared greeted in mock jubilation. “Does Yoriko-chan have your blessing?”

Shin-ju cringed. “Cut it out!” he yelled.

“Indeed she does!” Akira greeted in return, waving his hand in triumph. “She could not have chosen a finer man!”

Yoriko’s face turned beet red. “Papa…” she muttered, her voice stretched and pained.

Akira laughed, placing his large hand lovingly on his daughter’s shoulder. “I am only joking, Yoriko. You may go with Shin-ju-kun to the Festival, but please do not stay out too late.”

The girl only managed to nod in thanks.

Before Shin-ju could step away, Jared grabbed him by the shoulder.

“One more thing, stud,” the Merchant whispered, turning the both of them away. “You’ve been an awfully good Apprentice for the past week, so I guess it’s time to give you your just reward—and a little lesson about dating and Trade.”

Shin-ju raised an eyebrow as Jared pushed a small bundle into his hand.

“Dating and Trade are pretty much the same thing,” Jared quipped. “The most important thing… is money.”

The Nomad boy’s eyes widened as he saw a money pouch—easily containing over twenty thousand zenny—in his hand. Shin-ju looked up at Jared with the biggest smile the Merchant had ever seen the boy give.

“Thanks, Jared!” Shin-ju said heartily. “You’re the best!”

Akira and Jared watched as the two kids walked away towards the courtyard’s exit with a noticeable spring in their steps.

“Have fun, you guys!” Jared called after them, giving a thumbs-up sign. Akira waved quietly, a smile on his face as he watched his daughter leave with the blue-haired Nomad boy.

• • •

Shin-ju and Yoriko soon found themselves a part of the jolly mobs enjoying the Festival. The two kids marveled at the lights, the music, and the laughter—they were totally at a loss where to start. They spent so much time trying to find out which way to go first that they did not notice, behind them, a tall man in a long black coat and a sakkat pass by, walking in the direction of the Shogunate Halls.

• • •

Jared spied Akira’s face as the two kids disappeared from their view. The old Knight still had a smile on his face.

“A zenny for your thoughts,” Jared ventured, looking in the same direction as Akira.

“I’ve never seen Yoriko warm up to anyone as easily as she has with Shin-ju,” Akira said. “The boy is remarkable. He exhibits traits that are well beyond his age.”

“Really now,” the Merchant sighed. “You’re not the least bit worried, are you?”

“No. After all, he managed to save your life. Thirteen years old, and he faced death bravely.”

Jared froze, shocked. He hadn’t mentioned anything about how Shin-ju saved him from being caught by the Occultists one week ago.

“Wha… what do you mean?” the Merchant asked weakly.

“The burns on his arms,” Akira explained himself. “Accidents around the campfire do not scar you like that, unless you fall into the fire three times in succession.”

Jared nodded in resignation. There was no fooling Akira.

“No, he did not fall into the campfire. He defended himself against a Sorcerer’s Napalm spell.” Akira smiled before continuing. “And won. Very, very impressive indeed.”

The Merchant felt tired. “I didn’t want to involve anyone else in this, Akira.”

“I am certain you did not,” Akira answered. “But it has already been done. Shin-ju is now a target of the Occultists.”

Jared shook his head dismally.

“Still,” Akira continued abruptly, “silly to worry, I suppose. You now have the support of the Shogunate. The word of the Taishou is as good as the Shogun’s. It will all be done in a matter of days, and things will be back to normal for you.”

“If only it was that easy, too,” Jared sighed, feeling something in his inside coat pocket. “The One Who Waits… the things I’ve learned tonight doesn’t make me feel one bit better.

• • •

“The One Who Waits?”

Jared stepped back in surprise. The voice wasn’t Akira’s—someone was coming up from the stone steps in front of them. Instinctively, Akira took one step forward and prepared to draw his Katana in defense of the Merchant.

“Yamakuno Akira, Komichi Na Ryuuki. Who goes there?” Akira demanded calmly, his hand on the ornate sword’s hilt.

A tall man reached the top step and stood under the Courtyard’s entrance torii. Akira judged the man to be easily over six feet tall and weighing two hundred pounds, but carried no weapon and had no aura of hostility about him. He and Jared waited as the man reached up to take off his sakkat.

“Makimachi Mikieru, Niya-Bojutsu Ryu,” the man announced, showing the two friends his eyes—one iris a deep blue, the other an Elfish green.

The two friends recognized the man as soon as the moonlight reflected off his silver cross.

• • •

Yoriko had decided that she wanted to visit the Tao Shrine first, and Shin-ju agreed. The girl led him through the crowds to an area northwest of the city, over a sturdy wooden bridge that led to a complex of curved-roofed temples that looked like miniature replicas of the impressive Shogunate Halls.

There were decidedly fewer people here than in the Festival, and Yoriko had no trouble finding a vacant altar.

“Here, Shin-ju-kun,” Yoriko beckoned, handing Shin-ju a few incense sticks. “Light them with the fire and make a wish.”

Shin-ju took the sticks with hesitation. “Um, it’s just…”

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s… it’s just that I don’t really believe in these things.”

Yoriko giggled. “Really? You do not believe in a higher power?”

Shin-ju took a look at the altar. It was made of wood, framed on three sides and open on one. A curved, four-sided roof shielded it from the elements. The altar itself consisted of four banners with Payonese characters hanging over a small stone furnace. Beautiful flowers adorned the sides of the furnace, as well as several receptacles for the incense sticks in front of it. It was unlike any other altar that Shin-ju had seen in his life, though he admitted to himself that there was something spiritual about the place.

“I do,” Shin-ju sighed. “It’s just…”

“Then that is all that matters,” Yoriko reassured the boy. “To believe in a higher power… a greater scheme… that is the wisdom of the Tao. Would it not be wonderful if you could communicate with this power and make your wishes known?”

Shin-ju nodded.

Yoriko smiled. “Just do as I do, Shin-ju-kun.”

The boy watched as she took the sticks in her hands and pushed their ends into the furnace. A sweet scent soon permeated the altar. Then Yoriko pulled the sticks from the fire, held them between her palms, and closed her eyes in prayer.

Shin-ju slowly followed suit, though he held the sticks in one hand and kept his eyes open while he thought of something to wish for. He asked himself what he wanted most, and soon found his thoughts drifting into the past.

• • •

“So,” a soft female voice asked. “Found it yet?”

• • •

“Shin-ju-kun, what is your name?”

Shin-ju turned to Yoriko, finding the girl’s green eyes deeply staring into his own gray gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Shin-ju stammered, shaking his head as if snapping out of a trance. “My name?”

“Hai,” she answered. “I wanted to make a wish for you, but I need to tell the Tao your full name. May I know what it is?”

Shin-ju looked blankly at her, then turned back to the altar as if looking for the right way to say it.

Yoriko bit her lip. “Of course,” she admitted, turning away. “We are the same. We do not have names apart from the ones given to us by the real humans. Just like the name given to me by my father.”

Shin-ju nodded. “I’m sorry, Yoriko,” he apologized. “But Shin-ju is just about all I could give you at this point.”

Yoriko thought about this for a moment, then smiled when an idea occurred to me.

“Shin-ju-kun,” Yoriko said, pointing to a circular symbol in the middle of the altar’s rear wall. “Do you know what that is?”

Shin-ju squinted. It was a circle, divided in the middle by a curved line. One side of the circle was black, and the other was white. In addition, two smaller circles of the opposing color were found in each of the two sides. He had seen this symbol on the temple entrance.

“No, Yoriko,” Shin-ju apologized again. “What is it?”

“It is called the Yin-Yang,” Yoriko explained. “It is the collective symbol of the Tao. It represents the two opposing forces that create the balance in the world. Yin and Yang: the positive and negative aspects that represent summer and winter, heat and cold, night and day, and other opposites.”

Shin-ju eyed the girl as she talked, noticing again that the girl was very bright for her age.

“I will tell you a secret,” the girl confided. “My name is not really Yamakuno Yoriko, even if I claim it to be when I am asked for it. But I am not of the Yamakuno clan. I love my father very much, but the truth is that the bond we share is not biological. He understood this. Instead, he gave me this name: Yin Yoriko.”

The boy’s lips mimicked the pronunciation of her real name.

“My father gave me the name Yin because, like the Yin in the Yin-Yang, I was cold, calm, and quiet. Yin is also the ‘feminine’ side of the Yin-Yang, which added to the significance.”

She turned to him, smiling serenely.

“Maybe I can give you a name too, Shin-ju-kun. If I am Yin, then you are Yang.”

“Yang…” Shin-ju uttered.

“Yes. Yang represents warmth, movement, and energy. Yang is you. Yang Shin-ju. Shin-ju Yang. It sounds nice, does it not?”

“Shin-ju Yang,” he repeated, this time with a smile on his face. “I like it… very much.”

“I am happy!” the girl giggled, clasping the sticks with both hands again. “Now I can finish my wish!”

The two kids closed their eyes and prayed. Shin-ju felt a quiet joy welling up in his heart. He had a name! And it was given to him by a girl who trusted him enough to give him the opposite aspect of her own! The boy reveled in the feeling of being trusted—he had never felt so accepted in his entire life.

While Yoriko was praying, Shin-ju sneaked a look at her. The boy quietly admitted to himself that he liked her very, very much.

• • •

“The Tao must be smiling upon me these days, as I have had the good fortune of meeting two old friends again,” Akira intoned dreamily as he, Jared, and Mikieru walked towards the city from the Shogunate Halls. “Although it begs the question as to why you are here, Mikieru. Am I to suspect that you are also here for to celebrate the Midsummer Festival with our kin?”

Jared sneaked a look at the tall Cleric. It was hard to discern Mikieru’s emotions since his eyes were hidden behind his dark, round-rimmed glasses. Not that the glasses mattered, Jared reminded himself—the Cleric always had a stone-face that betrayed little, if any, of his emotions. None of Mikieru’s countenance had changed in six years.

“It is also good to see you again, Akira-sama,” Mikieru answered quietly. “But I am not here for the Festival. We both know well enough that I am not as closely related to the Orients as you are.”

Jared swallowed edgily, knowing that Mikieru was talking about his Elf-eye. Mikieru had always considered himself a Demi-human before anything else.

“Come now,” the Shousa laughed. “There is no reason to be so dismal. Perhaps you could tell Jared and I what brings you to Payon? I would certainly like to hear your reasons.”

Mikieru nodded, adjusting the level of his sakkat’s brim. “This morning, I received a letter from my apprentice, Shin-ju. In it, I saw Jared’s name and the name of your Inn, the Ronin Rest. I immediately felt compelled to leave Prontera and find you here.”

“Whoa,” Jared blurted out. “Shin-ju is your apprentice? No wonder the little guy reminds me so much of you!”

The Cleric turned to Jared with the slightest smile. “And it is good to see you as well, Jared. No, he is not technically my apprentice yet. He has not graduated from Novicehood. He has shown interest in learning more of the Holy Arts, however. If I am to judge by what he has shown me as of yet, I am certain that he will make a fine Acolyte.”

“I see that as well,” Akira agreed. “I am heartened to know that you are well, Mikieru. Even after all that misfortune that befell you and your troop after the War, you still manage to find a good career in the Constabulary and even find a suitable youth to take your place one day.”

Jared looked up at the starry sky as they passed from under a cherry tree. “It’s been, how long?” he asked. “Five years? Six? Back in that Desert Camp?”

The three old friends stopped to glance at the night sky. Each of them remembered seeing such a sky in Sograt Desert, six years ago, at the onset of the Frontier War. The stars brought back memories, both good and terrible.

“Six years, yes,” Akira admitted. “I was a field major back then, on the push to Morroc. Mikieru was a lieutenant on the Antioc front. And you, Jared, were a scammer.”

Jared guffawed. “No way!”

“At least, I thought you were,” Akira laughed. “You were going from tent to tent, asking me for all my money and promising to make it grow. How was I to believe you? You were only a fifteen-year old Merchant trying to get rich quick selling your weapons and potions in that Desert Camp.”

“Hah! And you must’ve thought I pulled one over you when you gave me all your money!”

“At that point I did not believe I was going to come back from the Morroc front alive, that is why. In retrospect, perhaps, I believe it was a good choice on my part.”

“Yep. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have your Inn!”

“Precisely.”

Jared noticed that Mikieru was still looking into the sky, even while he and Akira were trading old stories about how they first met. Good-naturedly, he elbowed the Cleric at the arm.

“Don’t tell me you’re regretting not giving me all your cash back then, eh, Mike?” he asked jovially.

Mikieru wasn’t the least bit amused. “No,” he answered, his eyes still on the stars. “I am only regretting the fact that there used to be four of us in our merry little circle.”

The smiles on the faces of Mikieru’s two old friends faded as they heard this.

• • •

[Kyotsyu]

Wow... Great chapter. I loved it! By the way did you read mine? If yes comment it. Yes I like to advertise.;_;

[zakky]

Shin-ju and Yoriko had a great time after they left the Tao Shrine. They watched shows. They bought new hats. They ate candy. They played games. They did not leave a single booth unvisited.

There were more than a few curious glances thrown their way by the Payonese citizens. It was surprising to most people—unsettling, even, for some—to see two Demi-humans mingling in the Festival. But the two kids didn’t notice any of the attention—they were having the time of their lives.

At ten in the evening, they sat on a quiet hillside a short distance from the city. They had come to watch the fireworks being lit from Payon’s central square. There were other people on the hillside—children, mostly, and their parents—and together they all watched as the streaks of fire flew up into the night sky, impossibly high, before they exploded into colorful plumes of light.

Yoriko had been talkative during their trek through the festive streets. Sitting beside Shin-ju on the quiet hillside, however, not a word passed through her lips. The boy noticed this, and he cleared his throat to break the uncomfortable silence.

“What are you thinking of, Yoriko?” he asked.

Yoriko had a peaceful look on her face, the fireworks reflecting off her misty green eyes. “It is a perfect night,” she said, not turning to look at him. “The stars are all out, the fireworks are beautiful, and you are here with me.”

The girl edged closer to the boy until their shoulders were touching.

“Why do you feel so troubled, Shin-ju Yang?” she asked. “How can you see all of this and not be happy?”

Shin-ju took a moment before giving an uneasy reply. “You’re… you’re lucky to be so tranquil about things.”

The girl sighed heavily.

“Fate… the One Who Waits… Demi-humanity… They mean nothing to me right now,” she said. “Me, I just want this moment to last forever.”

Shin-ju looked at her face, staring at the show of lights above them, for a few moments. Then he turned back to the sky, thinking of what she just said.

Nothing lasts forever, he thought, closing his eyes at the idea. I realized that long ago. I was like you at first, Yoriko, but something happened… something terrible… that showed me that fantasy has no place in this reality. You can’t keep wishing for these things. It will kill you when you realize that the world is much, much crueler than you could ever imagine.

Suddenly Shin-ju opened his eyes with a start. A flush of red came over his face as he realized that Yoriko had willingly leaned her head on his shoulder. His heart rate doubled, his eyes moistened—and he suddenly felt a surge of emotion as the girl reminded him of how he used to feel…

…before he left the Desert.

But… Shin-ju thought. I… I do want the same thing as you do, Yoriko. I do want this moment to last forever… even if it won’t.

The boy felt the tension in his chest soften as he allowed himself to wrap his arm around the girl’s shoulders and gently pull her closer to him.

• • •

“Yes, there used to be four of us,” Akira said dolefully. “It is sad to see that he has fallen so far.”

Mikieru nodded. “Garrione thought vengeance was the answer. It was not, is not, and never will be.”

Jared opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it at the last moment.

The three friends were standing on a viewing pavilion above the hillside where Shin-ju and Yoriko were sitting. Their trip down memory lane had led them here, and they had stopped to watch the fireworks. It was calming to see something so beautiful when their thoughts—all three of them—bordered on the dark and troubled.

“Garrione always believed in dark justice,” Akira mentioned as the fireworks plumed in the distance. “But justice, nonetheless. Back then, each one of us had the same ideals… only different paths to them. I believed peace was the right path.”

“I believed in prosperity,” Jared offered.

”I believed in atonement,” Mikieru finished. “And Garrione… Garrione believed in violence.”

There was silence between the three friends for several moments.

“Look at those two,” Jared finally piped up, leaning on the wooden railings and looking down the hillside. “They don’t seem to be worried about anything.”

Mikieru and Akira both took a step towards the railing and looked at the grassy slopes below them. In the distance, they recognized the serene forms of Shin-ju and Yoriko sitting on the hillside close to each other.

“I wonder what they believe in, y’know?” the Merchant asked dreamily. “For sure, it seems to be working a lot better for them than our own beliefs are working for us.”

Akira was disquieted. Only a few hours ago, he watched with glad interest as his daughter went to the Festival with this remarkable Nomad boy. Now, however, seeing Yoriko very friendly with Shin-ju, a natural racial bias welled up inside him, making him wonder whether allowing his daughter spend time alone with Shin-ju was the right thing for him to do.

Likewise, Mikieru’s mouth tightened when he saw Shin-ju’s arm wrapped across Yoriko’s shoulders. For the past several months he had been under the impression that Shin-ju was priming himself for an Acolyte’s life—and here he was, being especially comfortable with a girl his age. The mere thought unsettled the Cleric, almost to the point that Garrione was erased from his mind—and Mikieru suddenly felt the impulse to do something about it.

“Peace? Prosperity? Atonement?” Jared chuckled, his chin on his forearms. “Those kids just wanna have fun. They just wanna be happy. Isn’t that what justice is really about?”

Akira and Mikieru had no immediate answer to this.

“Garrione’s not gonna give up so easily. He’s gonna give us the worst of his violence before he does. This whole thing will come to blows, guys—and believe me, blood is gonna be spilled before we reach an end to all of this.”

Jared sighed, feeling the Stone in his coat’s inside pocket.

“We owe them an apology, guys,” the Merchant finished, looking down at the two youngsters.

Akira and Mikieru both took notice of their surroundings. A cool evening breeze was blowing through the Highlands, bringing with it the calming scent of pine. There was not a cloud that hid a single star in the sky, and the fireworks in the distance hailed without ceasing. False hope, they both knew—like the calmest of moments that prevail before the most violent of storms.

“Yes,” Akira admitted.

“Yes, we do,” Mikieru admitted as well.

[zakky]

Chapter Six
Leaving Payon

Yoriko Yamakuno hummed happily while she folded up her futon, and her father Akira noticed it. The sliding door to the girl’s bedroom was slightly open.

Akira peeked in, watching his daughter tidy up her beddings and prepare for the new day ahead. The old Knight could not help but frown as he observed how the girl smilingly tucked her futon into her closet and walked towards her mirror. He shook his head when he saw her put a spot of perfume on her finger and dab it on both sides of her neck. And he felt a drop of sweat roll down the back of his head when she combed her long black hair, brushing it backwards—instead of parting her hair in the middle, letting it fall over her face, like she always did—and put on a nice-looking flowered headband to hold her hair back from her pretty green eyes.

Akira swallowed. Yoriko had told him yesterday, quite happily, that it was Shin-ju who bought the perfume and headband for her.

Yoriko had been in a very amiable mood since two nights ago, when she and her new friend Shin-ju Yang toured the Midsummer Festival. She felt even better when she found out yesterday that Jared Wycrow had decided to postpone leaving for Al de Baran by one day. Their guests will be staying at their Inn for one more night.

“Oh,” Yoriko squeaked, seeing her father at the door when she stepped out. “Hallo, Papa. It is a beautiful morning.”

Akira’s mouth was tight as he leaned down to be kissed by his daughter at the cheek. Wordlessly, the old Knight watched as the young girl trotted down the hallway with light steps, humming all the way. Too late, Akira noticed that she was heading towards Shin-ju’s room.

“Yoriko, where are you going?” Akira demanded, surprising himself with the frantic tone in his voice.

The girl stopped walking and turned around, her smile gone from her face and replaced with a cautious look.

“I… am… going to fix breakfast, Papa,” she answered warily. “Is… there something you want me to do before that?”

Akira bit his tongue. Yoriko was only passing by Shin-ju’s room—she was actually heading for the stairs.

“Of course, of course,” Akira stammered, slightly red. “I… no, there’s nothing I…”

Before Akira knew it, his daughter was standing in front of him, her green Elf-eyes looking worriedly into his as she tiptoed to feel his forehead.

“Are you unwell, Papa?” she asked innocently. “You look feverish.”

Akira shook his head, trying to smile a bit. “No, no. I am all right, Yoriko. It is only… well… how do I put this… how—how old are you, Yoriko?”

The girl stared at her father wonderingly. “Thirteen, Papa.”

Akira swallowed again—never in his life did he think he would have to explain the birds and the bees to his daughter like this. He desperately tried to find another way.

“It is just this, Yoriko,” the old Knight stammered, his hand on the girl’s shoulder as he led her down the hall. “Shin-ju… he is… well… er… he is nice, is he not?”

A grin crept its way into the girl’s lips. “Yes!” she replied, rather enthusiastically.

“Yes, he is,” Akira exhaled. “But Yoriko, there is one very important thing you must know about him. Boys like Shin-ju have… well… they have… they have expectations…”

Yoriko listened with wide-eyed interest as her father led her down the stairs.

• • •

Shin-ju sat at the back porch of the Ronin Rest, slowly removing the bandages on his arms. The burns had healed. He tried not to think of Yoriko, who had carefully put the wraps over those burns only three days ago. She made him think of how Mikieru had admonished him the previous night.

Shin-ju had a shock yesterday when he realized that Mikieru was also staying in the Ronin Rest. The Cleric’s greeting was rather cold—Mikieru immediately took Shin-ju to his room and talked to him in private.

‘You wrote that you had some things to find out,’ Mikieru had asked him. ‘What are those things, Shin-ju?’

The boy’s mouth tightened as he took the wrappings from his left forearm. He remembered how he wasn’t able to give Mikieru a reply. It was clear, however, that the Cleric had known the answer all along.

‘Remember the Rosary I gave you,’ the Cleric had warned, finishing the short but tense sermon. ‘Once you put it on your wrist, it is a reminder of a total surrender. Do not wear it if you intend to pursue a relationship with Yoriko-chan—platonic or otherwise.’

Shin-ju almost tore the bandages from his right forearm when he was reminded of Mikieru’s warning. What does he know about my feelings? Shin-ju thought, rather angrily. I thought he’d come by to congratulate me on how well I’m doing with Blessing training! And here he is, telling me not to be friends with Yoriko? Does he even have any idea about how I feel?

For the very first time, Shin-ju sensed in himself an honest, however misguided, dislike for Mikieru.

The Nomad boy threw the bandages aside and jumped to his feet, walking onto the lawn. The sun was only peeking over the horizon to the east, and most of Payon was still under a shadow. The sky was already bright enough, however, for Shin-ju to see around him.

In the middle of the yard, Shin-ju planted his feet and shot an intense look at an imaginary enemy in front of him. If there was anything that could satisfy the anger in him, it was practicing his special fighting style.

Quietly, he began to devise a chain-combo in his mind.

• • •

“…and that, Yoriko, is why you should be careful around Shin-ju,” Akira finished. “It is too early for you to get into a relationship and have your heart broken… or worse… you remember what I told you, yes? I mean—you remember everything I have told you, yes?”

Yoriko bit back the honest impulse to shake her head no. Her father’s lecture was a veritable hodgepodge of physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual, biological, and philosophical lessons in life that he had managed to put into words in a single trip down the stairs. She had never seen her father so vague.

“I am sorry, Papa,” Yoriko answered. “But I think I got lost after the word ‘expectations…’”

Akira cleared his throat in exasperation. “But I am sure you have an idea of what I am trying to tell you, Yoriko,” the old Knight said as they made their way to the kitchen. “You are too young to be getting into a relationship, and I, your father, would appreciate it if you took a little more caution in choosing your friends…”

“Papa, Shin-ju is my only friend.”

“Exactly, and that’s…” Akira stopped, realizing that she was right. He was caught between choosing whether to deprive his daughter of her only friend or to let her make her own choices—and risk getting herself into serious trouble.

The old Knight turned away and headed for the sliding door that led to the backyard. He had never felt the need to be a father to Yoriko before now.

He opened the sliding door in time to see Shin-ju execute his new chain-combo.

• • •

FLYING ROUNDHOUSE—AXE KICK—FLYING BACK KICK—BACK THRUST KICK—SOMERSAULT FLASH KICK!

Shin-ju released five lightning-fast kicks in quick succession. Akira and Yoriko stood motionless in the doorway, staring in awe as Shin-ju somersaulted backwards high up in the air and landed squarely on his feet.

“YIAH!” Shin-ju yelled, leaping forward and throwing a savage low punch aimed at his imaginary opponent’s chest. It was a hasty finishing move, and he wasn’t satisfied. He needed to try it one more time.

• • •

Clap-clap-clap.

Shin-ju turned towards the patio. Akira was clapping his hands. Yoriko stood still, staring intently at the boy.

“Brilliant,” Akira said, not noticing his prejudice of Shin-ju was immediately replaced by a peer’s admiration. “Absolutely brilliant, Shin-ju-kun. What do you call that move?”

Shin-ju sheepishly scratched the back of his head. “Er—I don’t know, Akira-sama,” he answered. “I… I just came up with it today.”

“That is all right,” Akira answered. “Perhaps you can instead tell me the name of this interesting fighting style of yours.”

Shin-ju scratched his head again, looking up.

Akira grinned. “You just came up with your fighting style today, too?”

Shin-ju laughed. “N-no, of course not, Akira-sama. I guess it’s just my version of street fighting. I developed it on my own while I was… er… traveling.”

“I see. Do you enjoy practicing it?”

”Oh, yes. Very much so.”

“Then perhaps we can practice together.”

“Really? You know how to street-fight too, Akira-sama?”

“No, but the swordfighting style that I advocate also has a system of moves for bare-handed fighting.”

“The Komichi Na Ryuuki?”

Akira paused. “You have heard of it, then?”

“Jared’s told me a bit about it. He said it’s a fighting style that allows you to switch from offense and defense very quickly. It differs from Chivalry swordfighting greatly, and it requires a one-edged sword and good footwork.”

“That is correct, Shin-ju-kun.” Akira leaned forward. “I can help you a little with your new move too, if you like.”

Shin-ju’s face lit up. “Really? You will?”

“Yes. Now tell me, what do you think went wrong when you executed the move just now?”

Shin-ju thought quickly. “I wasn’t used to shifting from one move to the other,” he answered. “And I veered off a little during the two back-kicks. It’s easy to lose balance.”

“An acceptable observation. Now what do you think is the problem?”

“Er…” Shin-ju pondered. “Inexperience?”

“Partly, perhaps. But the main problem lies in your footwork.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It is a common problem for most self-taught fighters like you. You land and pivot too heavily on your heels and bone of your feet. Not only does it hamper your balance, but it also weakens the soles of your feet more quickly.”

Shin-ju was listening keenly. “I see... so what should I do?”

Akira knelt and lifted Shin-ju’s foot off the grass. “You need to learn how to distribute your weight and impact to other parts of your feet. For instance, when you pivot on your back-kicks…” Akira placed his finger on the bone of Shin-ju’s foot, “I noticed that you placed your weight very heavily on your bone.”

“I did?” Shin-ju asked. He wasn’t even sure.

“Yes, you did.”

“But I can’t pivot using my heel.”

“No, you cannot. But you can use the sides of your feet instead,” Akira explained, running his finger on the outer side of Shin-ju's foot. “Remember, you switched from a roundhouse-axe kick—a sideways motion—to a back-kick, a forwards motion. To rely on your heels and bones alone would compromise your balance.”

Akira put Shin-ju’s foot down and rose. “You will be surprised to realize how strong the sides of your feet can be. Now, do your move again. This time, try to feel your feet as waves. Let them roll. Once you get the feel for it, your kicks will be easier to execute.”

Shin-ju smiled as he absorbed Akira's lesson. “All right, I will. Thank you, Akira-sama!”

• • •

Yoriko watched as Shin-ju executed his move perfectly the first time he retried it. Akira clapped his hands again heartily while the boy leaped in celebration.

She smiled as a thought occurred to her. Shin-ju and her father shared a common interest in their fighting styles—perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard for Akira to accept Shin-ju as her friend if they spent some more time together.

Secretly, however, she bit her lip guiltily. She didn’t have the heart to tell her father that she already knew about the birds and the bees. If she did, it wouldn’t even matter if she told him that she and Shin-ju have already talked about their limits—Akira would forbid her to see him the moment he found out.

• • •

To be continued

[zakky]

“We’re leaving first thing in the morning tomorrow, Mike,” Jared said, stuffing a shirt into his backpack. “You might wanna pack up in advance so you could sleep better tonight.”

“I am ready to leave anytime, Jared,” Mikieru answered.

“Of course you are,” the Merchant laughed, slapping his own forehead. “Who the heck do I think I’m talking to?”

Mikieru was sitting on the edge of the bed in Jared’s room, offering company while the Merchant packed his belongings. It was midafternoon, and the thought that they would be leaving in less than twelve hours excited Jared a bit.

“I heard from Shin-ju that you’re working as a Constable these days,” Jared piped up. “It must be really tough on you to work a rank-and-file job after being a field lieutenant for three years.”

Mikieru nodded, shrugging off the Merchant’s lack of tact in starting his conversations. “True, it is not the job for me. But keeping the peace seems to be the only kind of work for which I am suited.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet there’s a lot to keep you busy in Prontera… what with all those Occultists running around. Does it get dangerous?”

“Sometimes. But danger is a relative term, especially after serving in the Frontier War. It is not a problem.”

“I guess the real problem is the wages.”

“Exactly. Between paying my rent and taxes, I get little spare to feed myself and Shin-ju, let alone save up for the boy’s education.”

Jared nodded, folding a brown jacket in his hands. “Yup, I know how it is,” he stated, pushing the jacket into his bag. “Y’know, if things were okay, I could probably help y’out a bit… except…”

The Merchant paused, noticing that the next item he was about to put into his bag was a rock—a smooth, three-sided gray stone.

“Except only that things are not okay,” Mikieru finished for the Merchant.

Jared nodded grimly, his fingers tightening around the Stone. Thoughts of Garrione invaded his psyche—followed by the image of a beautiful, blonde-haired, captive Elf.

“Damn it,” Jared spat quietly. “Damn it all to hell. Why did this have to happen to me? I’m just a Merchant, for cryin’ out loud! Why’d I have to be the great-grandson of a Goldraider? Why’d he pick me to take care of this stupid rock?”

Mikieru listened quietly.

“Tell you the truth, Mike—I really don’t care about any of this One Who Waits crap. I just want Napolde back. I just wanna hand the rock over to Garrione to get this over with. This is all that matters to me. Why does everything have to be so frickin’ complicated?”

There was silence for a while.

“Fate?” Jared ventured weakly.

“No such thing,” Mikieru finally answered. “Our lives are shaped by the choices we make.”

“If that’s the case, maybe I should’ve just handed it over when Garrione asked for it the first time,” the Merchant retorted.

The Cleric nodded. “But you didn’t.”

At this, the Merchant had no answer.

“It is obvious to me that the bond between you and this Elf is… more than ordinary, Jared.”

“It is,” Jared admitted.

“Tell me about it?”

Jared sat back, the Stone in both of his hands. Idly, he turned the rock until he saw the tiny Nordic etchings on it.

“Y’know, at first I thought I was okay just running my Trading Post in Al de Baran. It was… my world, Mike. I thought maybe I could keep this up for a few years and save up enough to build a small hotel or something. Y’know… something to keep me fed for the rest of my life.

“Then Napolde showed up on my doorstep. She showed me the papers, then she showed me the vault… and then she showed me the Stone. I thought it was some century-old joke, but she seemed so taken by the find. She never let me forget that I was in possession of an extremely valuable item… and then later, after having her stay in the Trading Post for a few days, she began to show me other things.

“I dunno how to explain it, Mike… but it was like she brought a sort of awakening to me. She slowly revealed to me what lay in the world outside. She told me of the beauty of her Elven home hidden deep in the forests… of mythical Dwarves tunneling deep under the ground and their grand mountain halls… and most of all of the great Human spirit that thrived in my heart.”

“Your heart,” Mikieru repeated.

“Yeah,” Jared laughed, his eyes moist. “Couldja believe it? I was taken by that remark. Even my own parents thought I wouldn’t amount to anything more than a cart trader. Here she was, telling me about my great Human spirit—and believing in it with all her might!

“It was weird, Mike… it was an awakening, like I said… it was like, overnight, everything she was talking about made sense to me. She made me feel more than just a trader… she made me feel special… and she believed I was more than what I appeared to be. It didn’t take long before I wanted to believe it, too.”

There was a pause.

“Then it is no wonder why you decided not to give Garrione the Stone,” Mikieru concluded. “You believed in every word she said.”

Jared turned to Mikieru frantically. “Mike, we gotta save her,” he begged. “I dunno what I’d do if something happened to her.”

Mikieru nodded, leaning forward and laying a large hand on the Merchant’s shoulder. “Tomorrow morning, Jared,” he assured him, “I will be up before everyone else.”

• • •

Mikieru waited in front of the Ronin Rest. He had been up for an hour. He stood unmoving at the Inn’s front fence, his eyes moving between the Inn’s empty entrance patio and the four Payon Knights who waited behind him.

The Payon Knights had been sent by the Shogunate to serve as escorts for the trip to Al de Baran. They were to see to the safety of Mikieru, Jared, and Shin-ju for the duration of the voyage. The Cleric knew that it was merely a symbol of the Taishou’s word of honor—a breach of which would be unacceptable in Oriental standards.

The armored Knights were mounted on Peco-pecos. Each of them was armed with a Katana slung on their left hips. Mikieru eyed each one of the ornate swords curiously, noticing their unique hilts—and something else…

Mikieru turned back to the Inn’s entrance when he heard the doors slide open. Akira and Jared stepped out, carrying the Merchant’s bags, followed by a very quiet Shin-ju.

Akira was doing most of the talking. “I am sure that if there was any fighting in Prontera within the past three days, it will have abated by now. The five hundred decommissioned from the Sograt Garrisons are probably on their way to Al de Baran as we speak—they might already be there, even.”

“Isn’t there any way to find out?” Jared asked, nodding at Mikieru as he neared the gate.

“This operation is confidential, and the field reports are sent directly to the Taishou before the information is disseminated to me and the rest of the Shogunate. All military activities are under his administration, after all… and I am expecting a full report on the operation on my desk today.”

“Hmh,” Jared sniffed. “In other words, no.”

Akira laughed, handing the Merchant his backpack. “I will let you know as soon as I can, Jared… though I am sure you will find out before I do. You just take care of yourself, all right?”

“I will,” the Merchant promised, mounting his Peco-peco. “Once this is all over, Payon is the place I’ll be coming back to.”

“Good,” Akira said. “Then I will have the pleasure of meeting her.”

Jared nodded, thinking of the fond idea.

“The Ronin Rest will always have a room for you, Jared Wycrow,” Akira announced. “I will be waiting for your return.”

The Merchant extended his hand, and Akira shook it with both of his.

“Thank you, old friend,” Jared said quietly.

• • •

“Shin-ju, matte kudasai!”

A serene tinkling sound accompanied Yoriko’s steps down the front pathwalk as she hastened towards Shin-ju. The boy stopped and turned around.

“Here,” the girl squeaked breathlessly, handing the boy a sakkat. “It might be a tiring ride, and you will need this to shield your eyes from the sun.”

Shin-ju didn’t smile, but he slowly extended his hands to receive the girl’s gift. The sakkat had a chime attached to its circular brim, and it made a tinny sound when the boy took the hat from her hands.

“Thank you, Yoriko,” he said cheerlessly. “It’s pretty.”

“Please be careful,” she continued. “I… I will miss you.”

Shin-ju nodded. He wanted to say the same thing to her, but knew that Mikieru was still within earshot.

“You will write to me, yes?” she insisted.

Shin-ju looked at her and smiled a bit. Quickly, he raised the wide-brimmed hat up to their faces to hide them from Mikieru’s view—and snuck an unexpected kiss on Yoriko’s cheek.

The sakkat did little to keep Mikieru from knowing what Shin-ju did, however—the Cleric saw the bright red flush that came over Yoriko’s face when Shin-ju lowered the sakkat.

“I’ll come by and see you when this is all over,” Shin-ju reassured her. “I promise.”

The two kids stared at each other for a sad moment.

“Bye,” Shin-ju whispered finally, turning around and walking towards his Peco-peco.

Shin-ju passed by Mikieru without a word, avoiding the Cleric’s eyes as he watched the boy head for his Peco-peco.

• • •

Mikieru’s stone-face did not show any emotion. He merely turned to Akira to nod his goodbyes. No words were necessary between him and the old Knight—Akira’s eyes told the Cleric to take care of his companions, and Mikieru understood immediately.

“Ready?” Jared asked.

Shin-ju looked back at Yoriko and her father. They were waving.

Mikieru rode alongside Jared. “Let’s go,” he answered.

Jared gave the signal, and the seven riders started moving in the direction of the Fort City's main gate.

Left behind, Yoriko sighed miserably. Akira walked to his daughter’s side and laid his hand on her shoulder. Together they watched as their three friends and their escorts disappear.

Behind them, the sun peeked over the mountaintops, and the Fort City began to stir.

[Kyotsyu]

Oh my god... This is astonishing. The characters, the descriptions and everything is so well done. Excellent work!

[liureiyi]

hi kuya Mikey,..

Philippine Ragnaboards is finally up!!!
ahihi

i'm waiting for your come back there too!!!
God Bless,..


~ a loyal fan

[zakky]

Thanks for the comments, guys. I really appreciate them ^__^
Stay tuned, coz the climax of the First Book is just about to begin.

Lyra
Hi~ It's nice to see you again.
I can't seem to register at RB. The Mods don't validate my account. Harumph.
Favor... if anyone there is asking about me, tell them I've registered and I can't wait to see everybody again.

Take care
"Mike"

[zakky]

Chapter Seven
Mysterious Circumstances

The sky had already been dark for an hour when Mikieru, Jared, Shin-ju, and their four escorts rode up the hilly slopes towards Prontera’s South Gate. They had not stopped once during the ride-Mikieru had denied Jared’s requests to stop for their meals. It surprised the Merchant a bit. He himself wanted to reach the Northern Capital in the shortest possible time, but the Cleric’s sternness about riding on unsettled him slightly.

Not a word came out of Shin-ju during the entirety of the eighteen-hour ride. He wasn’t used to Peco riding, and his back hurt badly. The boy shared Jared’s sentiments about stopping once in a while, but he hesitated about saying anything. He and Mikieru weren’t on speaking terms-or, at least, he felt thus.

Tension gripped Jared when the torch-bearing South Gate Sentries approached Mikieru warily. The fighting must be over, the Merchant thought. Parts of Merchant’s Alley must be bloodstained by now…

“Your ID, Father?” one of the Sentries demanded, eyeing Shin-ju shiftily.

Mikieru took out his Constabulary ID and handed it to the Sentry. “Brother,” he corrected. “Brother Mikieru Makimachi, party leader. This is Jared Wycrow, Merchant from Al de Baran, and Shin-ju, my Apprentice. The Payon Knights are our escorts, commissioned from Payon.”

“Apprentice?” the Sentry sniffed. “You’re telling me this Nomad is going to be a Priest one day?”

Mikieru glanced at Shin-ju, whose eyes were turned in another direction.

“If he chooses,” the Cleric answered.

“Fine,” the Sentry said impatiently, handing Mikieru’s ID back. “What’s your business here, then?”

“We are under orders of the Shogunate. We were to ride to Prontera three days after the Sograt Garrison Knights engage the Old Occultists here. How goes the battle?”

Another Sentry raised his eyebrows. “What battle?”

Jared’s eyes widened at this remark. Shin-ju looked up, surprised.

Mikieru’s mouth was tight. “You mean to tell me that a battle did not take place here? No Payon Knights? No Occultists?”

The Sentries looked at each other before answering. “Frankly, Brother, your escorts are the first Payon Knights we’ve seen in months.”

“What?” Jared blurted out. “That can’t be!”

“Strange,” Mikieru admitted calmly. “In any case, sirs, my party requires entry to Prontera. If there is nothing else, may we be on our way?”

Once more, the Sentries cast skeptical looks at Shin-ju before waving the party through. “Very well,” they said. “Stay out of trouble and there will be no problems.”

• • •

“Did I hear that right?” Jared whispered as they rode their way into Merchant’s Alley. “No battle?”

Mikieru did not answer. His eyes instead scanned their surroundings. Merchant’s Alley was bustling as usual, with shops and ale houses open and teeming with their usual patrons and activity.

“No sign of Occultists,” Mikieru whispered back. “And no sign of Payon Knights either.”

“Something’s not right, Mike,” the Merchant muttered warily. Their escorts were likewise looking around in vain for any of their peers in the City.

Shin-ju meanwhile rode quietly behind the two men, covering his nose with disdain. He noticed how different the air here was from the clean Payonese atmosphere. The roads were dusty, the buildings were sooty, and the storm drains were clogged. He wondered how he managed to stay in this city for five months and not notice the filth that hung in the air on a regular basis.

“What should we do?” Jared asked.

Mikieru exhaled. “I am tired. Let us find an Inn and get a room. Perhaps there will be news from Akira in the morning.”

• • •

It was past midnight, and the room occupied by the three companions was silent. Mikieru had ordered Jared and Shin-ju to get some sleep and wait until morning to have something to eat. Jared and Shin-ju were starving, but were too tired-and too intimidated, admittedly-to argue with the Cleric.

Only the light from a lamp-post in the street below them threw any semblance of conscious life in the bedroom.

The door to their bedroom swung slowly open.

Silently, three dark figures crept into the room. Each stopped beside a bed. Without a sound they drew out sharp, curved swords from under their coats and held them over the beds, the deadly points aimed downwards at the chests of the three sleeping companions.

The faint fire-light reflected in both the blades and the figures' murderous eyes.

• • •

Suddenly one of the beds glowed. The three masked assassins stared at it for a second, distracted.

From under the sheets of the bed, a glowing gloved fist shot up and smashed under the chin of the assassin next to it. The assassin dropped his sword, flew upwards, and crashed through the plywood ceiling.

The first assassin hung from the ceiling, unconscious, his head embedded into the wood.

Shocked, the other two assassins threw their swords down and stabbed at their respective beds. The second assassin thrust his sword repeatedly, only to curse in the realization that he form under the sheets wasn’t a person-they were pillows formed in the shape of a sleeping man. Already, feathers and fluff were flying around the bed.

The third assassin stabbed once, only to stop when he realized a lithe form had shot out of the bed, sending the sheets flying.

It was Shin-ju, very awake and very angry.

Planting his feet on the wall, Shin-ju pushed off it with all his might, flying towards his assassin and burying his knee between the masked man’s eyes. The force carried them both towards the opposite wall, where Shin-ju drove the assassin’s head into the oak paneling. A picture frame fell off its hook from the impact. The assassin fell unconscious from the dented wall as Shin-ju twirled lightly in mid-air recoil and landed on the ground.

The third assassin made a run for the door. Immediately Shin-ju flew over him and kicked the door shut. Shin-ju stood in front of the door, a look of warning in his eyes.

Cursing, the assassin raised his sword. He was about to lunge when he felt a presence behind him.

”Don’t even think about it,” Mikieru calmly warned.

The assassin frantically twirled and swung his Katana, aimed at Mikieru’s neck. Effortlessly, Mikieru slapped the assassin’s wrist, knocking the sword out of his hands. Recovering, the assassin back-slid, drew out a knife, and flung it at the Cleric. With the same nonchalance, Mikieru caught the knife by its handle, the blade a mere inches from his face, and threw it aside.

At that point the assassin squatted low and sprinted towards Mikieru. The Cleric stood motionless, watching his opponent’s movements as the opponent shifted his position repeatedly, right and left, trying to catch Mikieru off-guard. When the assassin came within striking range, he feigned a punch at Mikieru’s face. The Cleric didn't flinch.

Twisting, the assassin skidded around Mikieru and threw a lethal back-fist aimed at the back of his head. Immediately, Mikieru turned and lashed out his arm, simultaneously blocking the back-fist and slamming an elbow into the assassin’s nose. The assassin flew backwards and crashed through the glass window, falling onto the street three storeys below them. Mikieru straightened and wiped blood from his elbow.

Shin-ju stared at Mikieru in amazement. It was almost as though the Cleric could see through the assassin’s movements.

After a moment of silence, the room’s closet door slowly creaked open and Jared poked his head out. The Merchant stared at disbelief at the assassin hanging from the ceiling, the broken window, and the other assassin lying unconscious against the dented wall.

“Is… is it over?” Jared asked fearfully.

Mikieru held up a gloved hand, motioning for silence. “Ssh,” he whispered. “There were four of them.”

Shin-ju saw Jared mouth the word “What?” without a sound.

Mikieru walked over to the assassin hanging from the ceiling. He gripped one ankle and pulled down. The assassin fell onto the ground in a heap.

Shin-ju and Jared walked over as Mikieru wordlessly pulled the mask off the assassin.

”What the hell…?” Jared spat.

“One of your ‘escorts,’ Jared,” Mikieru muttered grimly.

Shocked, Shin-ju jumped to the side of the assassin he had knocked out. He pulled the mask off and saw what he expected to see.

”Our own escorts… tried to kill us?” Shin-ju muttered, incredulous.

The three friends moved towards the window. In the street below them, the third assassin’s body lay on the ground, with a Peco-rider standing over it. Just then the rider raised his face to the three.

It was the fourth escort.

Cursing, the Payon Knight turned the Peco around and sprinted up the street, out of sight.

• • •

An hour later, Shin-ju sat at the Inn’s café alone. He watched through the windows as Mikieru gave his statement to a female Constabulary Prefect while her Constables escorted the assassins and their attending paramedics to the hospital.

Jared was apologizing profusely to the agitated Innkeeper. Together, the two men had assessed the damage done to the room and came up with a sum. The disagreement arose when Jared solicited to settle the payments with Yellow Potion.

Shin-ju sullenly returned the suspicious looks thrown in his direction by the Constables, paramedics, and Innkeeper. He turned his eyes away from the scene when he got tired of the stares.

What in the world is happening? Shin-ju thought, his untouched cup of coffee growing cold. Who were those men? If the Taishou didn’t send them, who did?

Shin-ju kept himself from wondering whether the Taishou betrayed them. If the great warrior did, then Akira and Yoriko would be in danger this very moment…

Jared walked up to Shin-ju, apparently after reaching an agreement with the Innkeeper. “Hey, big guy,” he greeted with a shaky voice, taking a seat across the table. “You gonna take that coffee?”

Shin-ju shook his head drearily, avoiding Jared’s eyes.

“Thanks,” Jared said, scooping the cup to his lips and gulping down the warm liquid with reckless disregard. Shin-ju instinctively raised a hand to try to stop the Merchant from scalding himself.

“Don’t worry about me!” the Merchant laughed miserably, setting the empty cup down loudly on the table. “I’m just hoping some coffee’d wake me up from this nightmare!”

“Wake up, then,” Mikieru said, approaching the table. “I guess I should have told the two of you before, but your escorts were Old Occultists in disguise.”

Jared and Shin-ju glanced up as Mikieru threw a bloody black bandana onto the table.

“In disguise?” Jared asked stupidly.

“Yes.”

“And you knew this all along? How?”

“I felt something was strange this morning, before we left Payon,” the Cleric explained quietly. “I took a look at your escorts and noticed something off.”

“Really?” Jared muttered. “What?”

“Their Katanas,” Mikieru answered, not taking a seat. “They were all slung on their left hips, even when two of the escorts were left-handed. Besides that, three of the escorts were wearing latex masks-only one of them, the one that got away, was a true Orient. The other three were Northfolk… Occultists.”

Jared and Shin-ju didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Er…” Jared began. “How’d you know all that?”

Mikieru smiled a bit. “Suffice it to say that I see things others don’t,” he said, taking a seat while tapping his forehead above his green Elf-eye. Shin-ju saw this and wondered what he meant.

“Still!” the Merchant pressed. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner, Mike? Why’d you have to wait ‘til we reached Prontera?”

“I did not think it was wise to let your escorts know that I was on to them. I was waiting until I could catch them red-handed, you might say. But more importantly, we could not stay in Payon. Knowing that the Occultists have tracked you down there, I had to take you away from there as soon as I could. I did not allow our party to stop on the way to Prontera-that would have given your escorts an opportunity to kill you.”

Jared felt a cold chill crawl up his neck while Mikieru turned to look for a waitress.

“Excuse me, miss?” Mikieru called casually. “Is the kitchen still open?”

“Yes, sir,” a sleepy waitress answered from behind the café counter.

“Steak and eggs, please,” the Cleric called, turning to Shin-ju. “How about you, Shin-ju?”

Shin-ju looked up with a start, surprised that Mikieru was suddenly talking to him for a change. “Er… I… s-same, I guess,” he stammered, causing Mikieru to turn back to the waitress with two fingers raised.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll have a pastrami sandwich,” Jared called, then anxiously added, “Aw, and coffee! Lots of it! Don’t hold back!”

• • •

While the three friends ate quietly, Shin-ju eyed the black bandana on the tableside. Between mouthfuls he watched as the firelight in the café cast shadows on the bandana, making it look as though it was moving, dancing, mocking him. Shin-ju thought it was testament to the bewilderment and disquiet he was feeling at this point.

“This isn’t right,” Shin-ju whispered.

Mikieru and Jared raised their eyes to the Nomad boy.

“N-nothing,” the boy stuttered when he realized he had been thinking aloud. “Sorry.”

“What is it, Shin-ju?” Jared asked.

Shin-ju sighed, putting down his utensils. “It’s just… you know… the third guy awhile ago… when he attacked Senpai, he moved left, right, and behind without much effort. His footwork… when I saw his attack, I had no doubt that it was a Komichi Na Ryuuki technique.”

“Komichi?” Jared spat.

“The Oriental swordfighting technique?” Mikieru intoned. “Are you certain?”

“Y-yeah… at least I think I am,” Shin-ju answered. “Mr. Akira taught me a few Komichi moves yesterday… I’ve noticed how different it is from the Chivalry style of fighting. The assassin’s footwork wasn’t Northern. I’m sure of it.”

There was silence at their table a moment before Jared turned to Mikieru.

“What do you think, Mike?” the Merchant asked.

“I did not notice that,” the Cleric noted. “It is probably a good thing that Shin-ju brought it up.”

Mikieru finished his steak and took a sip of water. “At this point, I can only think of two things-either the Taishou has betrayed us, which I doubt, or Garrione has operatives even in Payon. In any case, it is not safe for us here.”

Shin-ju stood up immediately. “We gotta go back to Payon!” the boy yelled. “Yoriko and her father might be in danger!”

Mikieru nonchalantly shook his head, still taking sips from his glass. “I believe that would be unwise,” he said calmly. “We leave a danger zone only to return to it? It does not make sense.”

“But Senpai!” Shin-ju pressed.

“I say we should let Jared decide, Shin-ju,” Mikieru said, turning to the Merchant. “After all, he is the Keeper of the Stone.”

Mikieru and Shin-ju looked at Jared. The Merchant closed his eyes-this was a difficult decision to make.

If he chose to go to Payon, he might be bringing the three of them right into a trap. At the same time, he knew that Shin-ju was right-Akira and his daughter Yoriko might be in grave danger.

If he chose to go to Al de Baran, he will undoubtedly be taking them into the veritable stronghold of Garrione and his Occultists-unsure whether the five hundred Sograt Garrison Knights would be there, and whether Napolde was still…

Napolde!

Jared’s eyes shot open. “We go to Al de Baran,” he said with finality.

“I agree,” Mikieru said, rising. “We move immediately.”

Shin-ju couldn’t believe it. Mikieru and Jared were leaving Yoriko and Akira alone? The mere thought disgusted him to no end, and the boy turned and angrily headed for the exit, leaving his dinner unfinished.

Jared and Mikieru watched as the Nomad boy left the café in a temper, leaving the exit door to slam shut on its own. The Merchant sighed heavily, shaking his head.

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” Jared said, disheartened.

The tall Cleric looked down at Jared for a moment. “It is not your fault, Jared,” he said, turning to walk towards the exit. “I will talk to him.”

Jared doleful eyes followed Mikieru as the Cleric walked towards the exit door. Then he turned to the empty seat beside him and took his backpack in his hands.

“Excuse me, sir…”

The Merchant looked up with a start. The waitress was at their table, the bill for their meal in her hands.

A red tint came over Jared’s face when he saw the bill. “Er, yes, of course… er…” he began, smiling stupidly. “That is, wouldja mind if we, well… settle the bill with Yellow Potion?”

A bead of sweat rolled down the back of the waitress’s head. This was particularly what she hated about Merchants.

• • •

Mikieru pushed through the café’s main door and stepped onto the covered patio.

It was dark outside, and a light rain was falling. He could see Prefects moving here and there, assessing the damage and taking field notes of the incident that night.

“Shin-ju,” Mikieru called, squinting to find the Nomad boy in the darkness.

There was no answer. The Cleric looked around the patio. He stepped onto the sidewalk. He looked up and down the street. Shin-ju was nowhere in sight.

“Shin-ju?” he called again, this time loudly, trying to be heard over the slapping of the rain on the pavement.

Mikieru scanned the surroundings again, his eyes moving from the patio to the street to the Peco stables. Too late, he had realized that there were only two of the large birds tied to the posts-one of their Pecos was missing.

The shocked Cleric spun towards the street again. “SHIN-JU!” he yelled, desperate to be heard.

• • •

Shin-ju had taken one of the Pecos and had begun riding at full speed back towards the South Gate. He was so sure that Yoriko and Akira were in trouble that he knowingly went against Mikieru’s wishes and left the group. Ignoring the pain in his stomach and the biting cold wind whipping at his face, he barreled down the near-empty Merchant’s Alley and almost ran over the unsuspecting Gate Sentries on his way out of Prontera Fort City.

• • •

“…But I told them at the front desk my assets were liquid!” Jared insisted, waving a vial of Yellow Potion in front of the incredulous waitress.

“Jared, we have to go.” Mikieru ordered, re-entering the café. “Hurry.”

“Mike?” the Merchant asked, surprised at the Cleric’s tone. “What’s wrong? Where’s Shin-ju?”

“He left,” Mikieru answered, pushing a wad of money towards the waitress. “He took one of the Pecos with him. I believe he is heading back to Payon.”

“Are you serious?” Jared yelped, shoving the Yellow Potion into his pocket as he followed the Cleric out of the Inn. “What in the world is he thinking?”

“He is undoubtedly upset about our decision to go to Al de Baran, but I wish he understood the stakes here,” Mikieru said, a hint of anger in his voice. “If we are to reach a conclusion to this madness, the three of us have to stick together! I cannot promise to defend you and your Stone on my own!”

“So where are we going, then?” Jared said, untying his Peco from the Stable post. “Are we going back to Payon?”

Mikieru mounted his Peco. “No,” he answered. “Truth be told, I am not certain he is headed for Payon, but the circumstances suggest this. For the two of us, we have no other choice but to keep to our plan.”

“Then Al de Baran it is,” Jared sighed.

“Yes,” the Cleric admitted. “But I have to make a stop somewhere first.”

“Where?”

“My apartment,” Mikieru answered as they rode up Merchant’s Alley. “In Adobe Hill.”

• • •

Half an hour later, Mikieru and Jared walked up the steps to the Cleric’s second-floor apartment in the Adobe Hill District. As they approached the apartment’s door, Jared noted the dilapidated floorboards and wall paint on the hallway. The scent of something dead-probably a rodent-permeated the floor, and an expression of disgust escaped the Merchant’s lips.

“I can’t believe this is all your salary could afford, Mike,” Jared commented. “Keeping the peace eight hours a day only to come home to a dump like this. It isn’t right.”

Mikieru shrugged as he turned the key in the rusty doorknob. “Look at the bright side,” the Cleric answered. “It makes it easy to keep my vow of poverty.”

Jared laughed a bit as they entered Mikieru’s apartment. The Cleric’s pad was small studio-type, with a kitchen counter and a bathroom on the far end. A small study table and lateral file sat near the door, and a small table sat beside a sofa-bed against the right wall. All-in-all, it was a tidy-enough place to call home, if not a little too modest for the Merchant’s tastes.

Jared took a seat at the sofa-bed while Mikieru took off his traveling cloak and headed towards the closet. The Merchant watched as the Cleric shuffled through his clothes on the hanger rack, drawing out a suit of chain-mail armor and his long black Cleric’s coat.

The Merchant swallowed as Mikieru wore the armor under his coat. As the Cleric turned back to the closet, Jared heard him sigh in an almost regretful manner.

“I had hoped that I would never see the day that I would have to use this again…” Mikieru intoned, reaching into the closet.

A gasp died in Jared’s throat as he watched Mikieru draw out a six-foot long metal quarterstaff that was weighed heavily on both ends. It looked like two fierce-looking Iron Maces fused together at the bases of their shafts. Jared had never seen such a weapon before-it was magnificent.

“The Redeemer, Jared,” Mikieru said, answering Jared’s unasked question. “A special quarterstaff-mace made for me by the Holy Silversmiths of Juno. It is made of cast iron and silver, and it is primarily a weapon against Demons and the Undead… though its primary use does not preclude its efficiency against ordinary opponents such as Humans.”

“I, uh… I’m sure,” Jared muttered, still mesmerized by the size and appearance of the weapon.

“I took this with me when I served in the army during the Frontier War,” the Cleric continued, strapping the weapon to the back of his coat with leather latches. “I thought it would serve me well in my duties… only to wish I would never use it again after the War. I only hope that… as we move into Al de Baran, it will live up to its name… for your sake and my own.”

• • •

She feebly pulled at the chains at her hands, her tender fingertips digging into the shackles in a vain attempt to get free.

She had forgotten how long she had been fettered like this. She vaguely remembered counting the days and nights that passed by watching the hiding and surfacing of the large rats festering her dark dungeon cell. She had stopped counting after she reached ten days-that was three or four nights ago.

The girl smiled the moment she decided not to keep track of the days anymore. She knew that he wouldn’t be coming back for her, and that was good. She had asked him, very emotionally in fact, not to come back to Al de Baran even if her own life was in danger-and he apparently honored her wishes.

An unexpected clang run through her cell, sending the rats scampering back into their hiding places. The girl wearily looked up from the ground, trying to see what was going on beyond the rusty steel bars. She watched as her two masked guards push her door open and step aside, revealing a huge hulking form between them.

A large man walked in, donned in menacing full-plate mail, gauntlets, and greaves. A claymore was strapped to the plated belt around his waist. His eyes were uncovered, and she held his stare calmly as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Get up, Napolde,” the man ordered quietly. “It is an important day for the both of us.”

The Elf remained on the floor, turning her head away.

“I have news for you.”

“For what purpose do you seek power, Lord Garrione?” the girl asked quietly.

“Get up.”

“You will gain power for the sake of what?”

“Napolde.”

“What will power bestow upon you if you lose your own soul?”

The Knight decided not to get into this discussion again. Turning to the guards, he ordered them to pick her up off the floor and bring her to him upstairs.

• • •

“You need not worry about me, Napolde,” Garrione explained as the he and Napolde climbed the rickety wooden stairs towards the top of the drafty Clock Tower stairwell. “I have my reasons for seeking power, just as you have your reasons for hiding the Stone from me.”

“Reasons are well,” Napolde commented in her tranquil Elven tone. “The question lies upon the knowledge whether or not your series of reasons has a destination, and whether or not you know what that destination is.”

“Point taken. You have told me that on more than one occasion.”

“It bears repeating, Milord. For eight centuries, the Goldraiders and their Elven Druid friends have sought the answer as to what this destination was-or rather, what it should be.”

“The end-in-itself,” Garrione noted quietly.

“Yes.”

“And after eight centuries of searching, those fools never found the answer.”

Napolde pulled her hands apart, making the chains on her wrists cling. “Who is to say that they have not?”

Garrione sighed as they stepped onto a landing before another flight of stairs. “I am not saying they did not find the answer, my dear. I am only saying that once they found their answer, whatever it might have been, they realized that their answer served no purpose. Tell me then, Napolde, what does the end-in-itself serve? We search all our lives to find this end-in-itself, in order to do what?”

“Nothing, Milord.”

“Precisely. And by that, it means that the ultimate end-in-itself is ultimately useless.”

“No, Milord. The end-in-itself may serve no consequent purpose, yet it serves to end the cycle of reasons. It is meant to be the destination of all our actions. It is meant to end what would otherwise have been endless.”

The two reached the topmost level of the Clock Tower, where Garrione looked down on the Elf and asked her a question.

“And why would I want to end the endless?”

Napolde held the large Knight’s stare. “You keep me as a hostage so that Jared will be coaxed out of hiding. You coax Jared to come out of hiding so that he might surrender the Stone to you. You make him surrender the Stone in order to gain power. You want this power to… what? And what? And then what? And so on. What is the end to all this, Garrione? Does an end-in-itself even exist in your plans? Do you truly wish to continue this thread of intentions for all your life, only to realize on the day of your death that all your actions were for naught?”

Garrione forgave himself an evil smirk, rubbing his beard gleefully at the Elf’s elucidations.

“Jared will not return,” the Elf finished, unmoving. “He will never give you the Stone.”

“That is where you are mistaken, dear Napolde,” Garrione laughed, turning to walk towards a closed double-door that led to the Clock Tower’s roof balcony. “Jared is already on his way here.”

Napolde froze. “N-no,” she intoned. “That cannot be. I told him…”

“Perhaps you haven’t been around Humans long enough, my dear,” the Knight stated, pushing open the double doors and letting a flood of overcast sunlight into the Clock Tower stairwell. “We have reasons that reason itself cannot fathom.”

The Elf looked on, shocked to no end, at what she saw beyond the Clock Tower balcony. Al de Baran was in chaos. Houses were burning, sending black columns of smoke into the gray morning sky. Bandana-wearing men were raiding the houses and buildings, looting and pillaging, while others took men, women, and children out of their homes and bound them like criminals. Al de Baran’s undermanned Chivalry was doing all it can to suppress the sudden uprising, but they were overmatched by the seemingly endless number of Occultists.

“Jared is on his way here,” Garrione repeated, his gauntleted hands on the balcony railing. “He apparently thinks you are worth the risk to rescue. And if he doesn’t show up, I will find him… and kill him… myself.”

Napolde could not take her green eyes off the scene in front of her. Garrione was standing in front of her, looking evilly down at the anarchy prevailing over the Machine City. All of a sudden, the hope she felt four nights ago was dispelled, replaced by a deep foreboding of the days that would follow after this.

• • •

End of Chapter Seven

[zakky]

Chapter Eight
The Knight-Mage

Shin-ju bit back the urge to yawn as he barreled down the familiar forest road towards the Payon Highlands. The sun was now peeking through the forest canopy, painting the surrounding glades into a hue that threatened to overcome the boy’s sense of urgency with the fatigue he was trying to hide.

The boy never looked back at Prontera since he broke away from Mikieru’s party the previous night. He knew that the Cleric would bend his ear over his rash actions when they met again, but at the same time he also knew that there might not be a next time if his fears were proven true today.

Yoriko and Akira were in danger.

The mere thought of it pushed the boy to forget the fatigue of a sleepless night and ride on through.

• • •

Shin-ju’s ears picked up an inapt whistle up ahead. Instinctively, the boy yanked the Peco reins to one side and ducked his head in time to avoid being impaled by a crossbow bolt aimed between his eyes.

The large bird squawked loudly as it tumbled into the ground, throwing the boy off its saddle. Shin-ju grunted as he hit the ground, rolling twice before pushing himself onto his feet, eyes scanning the surroundings for the unexpected attacker.

There was nothing save for the sound of the wind blowing through the trees and the warbling of birds in the forest. Shin-ju could not see his attacker—the underbrush was too thick in the area.

The boy kept looking—he knew that the attacker would take the opportunity to fire another bolt at him. Shin-ju sighed and closed his eyes, focusing all his consciousness on his sense of hearing.

Another whistle sounded from his side.

Immediately, Shin-ju leaped into the air, avoiding the bolt by inches. Opening his eyes, he scanned the brush from where the bolt was fired—and saw a dark figure hidden between two trees.

“There!” the boy yelled, landing on the ground and sprinting towards the bowman.

Surprisingly, the bowman did not turn to run. He did not even reload his crossbow. Instead, the bowman rose, threw his crossbow aside, and drew out a Katana.

Shin-ju skidded to a stop, seeing the menacing Oriental blade glimmering in the sunlight. He waited as his assailant emerged from the shadows, the Katana in one hand.

“You?” Shin-ju muttered, recognizing the man. It was their fourth escort.

The slant-eyed man sniffed quietly. “Kobe Nobujiro,” he introduced himself. “Komichi Na Ryuuki.”

Shin-ju took a moment to gather himself. “What are you doing here?” he demanded to know. “I was assuming you were returning to Al de Baran and your leader.”

“Hmph,” Nobujiro snorted. “My leader? You truly believe I, a Payon Knight, would be in the service of Garrione?”

“Explain yourself then,” Shin-ju challenged.

“Oh, I shall… once you explain to me why the Kitsune sent you this way.”

Shin-ju shook his head. “He did not send me. I am here of my own option.”

“Is that so?”

“Now tell me who you’re working for.”

“The dead need no elucidation,” Nobujiro mocked, raising his Katana. “Suffice it to say that I was ordered to kill all three of you last night, but it seems my master will have to settle for only one.”

Shin-ju clenched his fists and prepared to defend himself. He was right—this man was taking orders from someone in Payon. Yoriko and her father were at risk.

“Name yourself,” Nobujiro ordered, invoking the Oriental custom of introducing oneself before engaging in combat.

Shin-ju raised his fists. “The dead do not elucidate,” he answered coldly. “Suffice it to say that if you do not step aside, I will be your worst nightmare!”

At that, the two assumed low fighting stances and yelled. Rocks, dirt, and grass flew as they pushed off the ground and charged towards each other.

• • •

“Mike, look at that,” Jared said, pointing at the mountain pass below them.

Mikieru rode over to the Merchant’s side and peered over the ridge’s edge. A hundred feet below them, the Cleric saw several people in tattered traveling clothes, walking in the direction of Prontera. There were no wagons—the men were carrying bags and baskets and the women were carrying their children. Mikieru thought they looked as though they had packed what they could carry and fled their homes overnight.

“Refugees?” Mikieru ventured.

“Just what I was thinking,” Jared agreed, pointing north. “I was wondering what that dark haze in the distance was. Now I’m pretty sure it’s smoke.”

The Cleric set his eyes northward, seeing the tiny gray haze rising in the horizon.

“Al de Baran’s on fire,” the Merchant said, “and those people are from the villages surrounding the Machine City. Looks like our worst fears have come true.”

“The anarchy began last night,” Mikieru observed grimly, gripping the reins of his Peco. “Though we won’t know to what extent until we reach the Machine City itself. What do you want to do now, Jared?”

The Merchant looked into the sky again, noting the cold weather and chilly winds that prevailed over the Mjolnir Mountain Range. He and Mikieru had set out of Prontera several hours earlier, choosing to take the rougher route over the rugged Mjolnir foothills instead of going through the mountain pass. The choice had cost them a few hours of traveling time, but it gave them an idea of what they were about to face if they continued on their trek to Al de Baran.

“Um… we, uh… we go down?” Jared asked, indirectly soliciting Mikieru’s opinion. “Meet the refugees, get information, then decide what to do next?”

Mikieru nodded. “Very well.”

• • •

Mikieru and Jared learned that the situation was worse than they had initially feared. The refugees told them of how Occultists, seemingly in the thousands, suddenly emerged from Al de Baran’s neglected sewers before dawn and engaged in an orgy of pillage, kidnapping, and murder. None of Al de Baran’s few districts was spared. Most of the Constabulary forces were killed, and the Stewards of the Machine City were trapped in their halls. Many rich citizens and Merchants were taken prisoner. Only those living in the nearby villages were able to escape the carnage, since the Occultists concentrated their dawn attack on Chivalry and Government targets inside Al de Baran.

Some of the refugees apparently recognized Mikieru, and begged him to stay with them while they rested. The Cleric had agreed, knowing that Jared also needed to get some sleep. The refugees prepared a tent for their two protectors while they stopped at a carved-out alcove in the mountain pass.

While Jared dozed off in their tent, Mikieru roamed the campsite, gathering information from the villagers and administering healing services where needed. All the while, he noted the familiarity of the surroundings, especially the color of the rock faces and the scent of the clay under his feet. It reminded him of his first trek to the Mjolnir Mountain Range, over ten years ago, when he was assigned as the Supply Officer in a search-and-rescue mission in the Mjolnir Coal Mines.

Even in his Acolytehood, Mikieru knew that the Clerics’ work lay on the field. Priests were seen as the core elite of God’s forces on earth, carrying out His will and standing up for His name and the name of all that was holy and good. Priests pledged their souls to God, and they were in turn blessed with unique skills and talents to use in fighting for good and banishing evil from Midgard. Priests were divided into two major groups—Presbyters, or the Pious, who oversaw the administrative, internal, and civil welfare-related matters of the Church and its faithful, and the Clerics, also known as the Brave. The Clerics’ duties centered on defending the Church and its faithful from external, evil threats in Midgard—both Human and otherwise…

“Everything started about an hour before dawn,” a woman named Ana told Mikieru while trying to hush a baby in her arms. “There was no warning. We awoke to screams and fires breaking out within the city walls. It wasn’t long before some of the Occultists spilled from Al de Baran and began heading towards our villages.”

“You are sure they were Occultists?” Mikieru asked.

“Yes, Brother. There was no mistaking the black bandanas on all of them. They were merciless—they hacked down all who stood in their way. I was… fortunate… to have escaped with Dell, here.”

Mikieru eyed the squirming bundle in the woman’s arms, judging the baby to be female and at least twelve months old.

“Do you have any other family members with you?” the Cleric inquired.

“No… I lived with my husband, though…”

“And where is he now?”

“He… he tried to defend the village with the other men while the aged, women and children fled… I haven’t… seen him… since…”

Ana began weeping, and Mikieru immediately laid a gloved hand on her shoulder.

“Ssh,” the Cleric soothed. “Worry not. What is his name?”

“Gerrold, sire,” Ana answered between sobs.

“Very well. When my companion and I reach Al de Baran, I will keep my eyes open for anyone who answers to that name.”

• • •

“Murderer!”

Mikieru faced the accusation that was directed at him.

”Murderer!” a shepherd man from the camp yelled, pointing at Mikieru. “You are the Kitsune! You are in league with Garrione and his Occultists! How dare you show yourself in our midst!”

The Cleric opened his mouth to speak, but Ana stepped in front of him in defense. ”Ranche! Do not speak of him as such! Did you not hear him? He is here to protect us! He is here to liberate Al de Baran!”

“And you trust him?” Ranche bellowed. “After what his colleague has done to the Machine City? Drive him away, I say! He will not do anything but bring even more grief upon our heads!”

• • •

“ENOUGH!”

Ana and Ranche immediately stopped when a graying man stepped in front of Mikieru. His clothes were in slightly better condition than the attires of the villagers, and he carried himself in a manner much more civil—the Cleric guessed the man to be the village leader.

“He has offered to help us,” the elder said.

“He killed innocent Nomad children!”

The elder turned quietly to Mikieru, ignoring Ranche’s outburst. “Forgive him, Brother,” he whispered. “But please be assured he does not speak for the rest of the villagers. Not all of us are as distrustful.”

Mikieru nodded, but did not answer.

“My name is Gorban, and I am the elder of our village,” the old man said, placing a withered hand on Mikieru’s sleeve. “Please, come with me to my tent… there is much I would like to ask you.”

• • •

Mikieru squatted on the ground in Gorban’s tent, his eyes aimlessly following the ants crawling on the clay soil. He didn’t say a word while the village elder poured a glass of water for him. The Cleric couldn’t help but think of what Ranche called him only a few moments ago.

“Murderer!”

“Drive him away, I say!”

“He killed innocent Nomad children!”

“Here,” Gorban said, offering a glass of water to Mikieru. The Cleric, mouth closed, took the glass in his hands and nodded his thanks.

“You are no doubt bothered by Ranche’s outburst, and for that I am sorry,” the village elder drawled, taking a seat on a large rock. “His father was one of the soldiers murdered during Garrione’s raid on the Chivalry desert camp two years ago. He has had in him a great hatred for Garrione and the mutinous officers since then… but I would believe you if you told me you had nothing to do with that mutiny…”

“I do,” Mikieru answered.

“I… I beg your pardon?”

“I do take responsibility for that raid. I did not stop Garrione when I had the chance.”

Mikieru turned away, the glass of water still in his hands.

“A few nights before they attacked, Garrione informed me of their plans… he asked me to join them and exact justice for the wrong our superiors had done to us. I refused, and I warned him that I would let the authorities know of their plans if he did not back down from his motives. He assured me that he changed his mind and would do no such thing… and I believed him.”

Gorban sniffed in incredulity. “You had no fault in that, Brother.”

“Do you believe in Fate, Master Gorban?”

“Fate…?”

Mikieru nodded, still not looking up at the village elder.

”This is what I believe,” the Cleric intoned. “Our lives… our world… is shaped by choice. But it goes beyond that. The blame falls not only upon the choices we make, but also upon the choices we do not make.”

“And therefore, you believe Garrione’s treachery is your own fault… merely because you did not stop him?”

Mikieru turned to look at the swirling water in the glass in his hands. “Therefore I believe I must do what I can do make up for my sins… both for the things I have failed to do… and for the things that I have done.”

Gorban frowned, mystified by Mikieru’s quiet confession. He understood the Cleric’s guilt of failing to stop Garrione two years ago, and yet Mikieru also mentioned that he had to make up for the things that he had done…

The village elder was about to ask Mikieru what he meant about this when a shout was heard from outside the tent.

“Riders! Heading this way! The camp is under attack!”

Instinctively, the old man turned towards the sound of the yelling. Then he turned back to Mikieru—only to realize that the Cleric had made a hasty exit from the tent, leaving behind an empty glass on the spot where he sat.

• • •

Shin-ju and Nobujiro skidded backwards, away from each other, after a violent clash. The boy winced, noticing a flesh wound on his forearm, while Nobujiro rubbed a swollen cheek where Shin-ju was able to land a palm strike during the exchange.

“You fight well, for an unarmed youth,” Nobujiro commended, spitting. “I could understand how my three flunkies failed their mission last night.”

Shin-ju eyed the Payon Knight warily while hastily bandaging his wound with a handkerchief. Nobujiro himself was a skilled fighter—his fighting style was completely different from the ones the Occultists used. There was no doubt about it—Nobujiro was schooled in Komichi Na Ryuuki.

“You’re not one of the Occultists,” Shin-ju observed.

”Of course not. Were you not listening? I would not be caught dead serving Garrione.”

“Tell me who you serve!”

“Someone much more powerful, little Nomad… one whose plans will be fulfilled whether or not you stand in our way.”

Shin-ju clenched his fists. “I don’t care about your plans,” he announced. “I only want to see to the safety of two of my friends in Payon. Step aside.”

“The Yamakunos, I presume.”

Shin-ju’s eyes widened. ”You know them?” he yelled.

“Shousa Akira and his Elf-witch daughter Yoriko… I make it a point to know all those to be involved in my master’s plans.”

“Where are they? What have you done to them? I swear, if you’ve touched a hair on their heads…”

“You will do what?” Nobujiro challenged. “You will kill me? You will kill my master? You have no power, insignificant little one. The only thing you need to realize is that it is too late for you and your friends. My master’s plans are already in motion. It is only a matter of time before you, me, and all of Midgard will see the power and glory that is my master’s heritage.”

Shin-ju’s head swam, but his anger rose with every defiant sentence that came out of Nobujiro’s mouth. The boy closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them again with a fury as a bluish-white aura materialized around his body, wafting upwards into the air like a flame.

“Step… aside.” Shin-ju gave his final warning.

Nobujiro smirked. He had been informed of the boy’s unusual knowledge of the Holy Arts and was prepared to meet Shin-ju’s Blessing with his own self-enhancement trance spell.

The Payon Knight shifted one foot behind him and raised his Katana. Shin-ju gaped as he watched Nobujiro’s body become enveloped by a yellow self-enhancement aura.

“Two-hand Quicken,” Nobujiro mocked.

In another moment, Shin-ju and Nobujiro would lunge forward and clash again in another violent exchange of blows.

• • •

Mikieru’s form, one hand on the shaft of the Redeemer and the other drawing circles in the air in a gesture to get moving, gave the villagers a sort of calming relief while the Cleric walked past them to meet the riders. He had heard the warnings as well, and now he stood at the mouth of the mountain pass between their approaching attackers and the villagers he had agreed to defend.

Jared poked his head out of his tent. He lost his sense of fatigue as soon as he saw the villagers frantically breaking camp. Something was wrong.

“I warned you!” Ranche yelled at the top of his lungs. “He was nothing but bad luck!”

Ana was too frightened to argue. She carried a bawling Dell in her arms and ran towards the rear of the camp with the other women and children.

Gorban and the able-bodied men in the group picked up spades, picks, clubs—anything that resembled a weapon—and moved towards the riders in a desperate attempt to protect the villagers, but they stopped from moving any further when Mikieru extended a gloved hand behind him, silently telling them to stay back.

Mikieru fixed his gaze at the approaching cloud of dust in the mountain pass. A quick estimate gave him the idea that there were well over one hundred riders heading his way—expectedly, all of them wearing black bandanas. What made Mikieru feel ill were the banners of Al de Baran lifted alongside the feared standards of the Occultists.

“Occultists,” Jared whispered fearfully, instinctively patting his pockets for the Stone.

The village held its breath as the Occultists came closer to Mikieru. Then, abruptly, the riders stopped approximately thirty meters from the Cleric. It seemed as though they recognized him.

Mikieru knew that his identity was known to them. It was no surprise to him, therefore, when the riders parted to form a path at their middle, allowing a large armored man on a powerful armored Peco to approach.

The man was almost seven feet tall and easily weight three hundred pounds without the full-plate armor that encased his frame from the neck down. The man reached up to his chin and took the edge of his visor in his fingers, lifting it to reveal his familiar face to Mikieru.

The Cleric was the first to speak. “It had to come to this.”

“We know each other well, Kitsune,” Garrione announced. “I knew you would be here.”

“No words need to be spoken between us, Garrione. I will not leave you to harm these villagers.”

“Expectedly,” the huge Knight laughed. “You and your proverbs. A burnt child fears the flame. Your conscience is crippled so much after killing innocent Nomads that you are blinded by the fact that it was not your fault, and now you so desperately try to protect these villagers to atone for your sins. Ironic as it might be, Kitsune, I would still offer you… a Priest… one last chance to wake up to the truth.”

“Truth?” Mikieru asked. “I see no truth in vengeance, Garrione.”

“This is not vengeance, Kitsune. This is…”

“Justice,” the two old allies said together.

Garrione smirked. “So you do see the point in my actions.”

“No, I do not. You claim to stand for justice, Garrione, but you are merely using our dishonor as an excuse to gain power.”

The Knight frowned, clearly unamused by Mikieru’s accusation. He sighed before giving his final challenge.

“I will not stand and be insulted, Kitsune,” he said coldly as the soldiers around him began to dismount and draw their weapons. “You force me to jump to the point of my visit.”

Garrione shot a finger into Mikieru’s direction.

“Hand over Wycrow.”

Back in the crowd, Jared gasped when he heard this.

“No,” Mikieru said. “I will not.”

“Then I shall give you the honor of facing the consequences of your actions long past, Kitsune,” Garrione taunted, the other Occultists grouping into a staggered semicircle around the Cleric. “I know this is not the judgment you are looking for, but I’m sure you’ll agree with me when I say it is a righteous verdict for you.”

The Cleric looked at the Occultists surrounding him, vaguely wondering why a part of him agreed with Garrione’s statement. It was all he could do to raise his hands to the Redeemer strapped to his back and set his feet apart in half-hearted preparation to defend himself.

“My judgment is in God’s hands,” Mikieru finished, focusing his eyesight on the one hundred-strong Occultists. “Do as you must, Garrione, but you will not take Jared or these villagers today. I will not allow it.”

• • •

Nobujiro flew forward, propelled by his sword-enhancement spell, unleashing several lightning-fast slashes and thrusts. Wide-eyed, Shin-ju quickly moved backwards, doing his best to avoid the Payon Knight’s speedy attacks.

Shin-ju was able to find an opening and thrust his leg forward in a low kick. The desperation kick hit Nobujiro in his armored midsection, and his attack was halted. Shin-ju flew backwards and fell on one knee. His clothes were torn in some places and his arms had many small nicks and cuts. He had avoided being hit directly by any of Nobujiro's attacks, but he wasn’t fast enough to evade the blade completely--even with Blessing.

Impossible! Shin-ju thought desperately. He’s so much faster!

Nobujiro immediately resumed his unstoppable attack. Shin-ju raised his Blessing spell to the limits of its capabilities, but still he wasn’t able to achieve a speed faster than Nobujiro’s. The Nomad boy did all he could to avoid being hit directly by the Payon Knight’s Katana.

Deciding he couldn't be on the defensive side for long, Shin-ju decided to risk a counter attack. As he saw a backhand slash coming, he lashed his forearm forward. The forearm stopped the sword, its blade embedding itself into Shin-ju's leather arm-guard. Nobujiro paused, distracted by Shin-ju's risky block.

Shin-ju grimaced in pain. Nobujiro's sword had cut through the hard leather and had wounded his forearm. Instinctively, Shin-ju planted his feet on the ground and threw a roundhouse kick. The kick caught Nobujiro in the side of the face, and he turned away in recoil.

As Nobujiro turned his back on Shin-ju, he lashed out his foot in an unexpected back kick. His foot landed on Shin-ju’s unprotected midsection, and the boy slid backwards.

Shin-ju fell on one knee, coughing. Nobujiro had hit him in the solar plexus, knocking the air out of him and, worse, dissipating his Blessing spell. The Nomad boy watched in horror as the bluish-white glow left his hands.

Shin-ju spat silently. Nobujiro knew the only way to counter the Blessing trance—by scoring a clean hit on the caster’s midsection. The Nomad boy looked up as the Payon Knight prepared to unleash another assault with his Katana.

The boy shook his head dismally. He was tired. He knew if he cast Blessing one more time, he would not last through the day. He was still too weak.

Shin-ju watched as Nobujiro lunged towards him, Katana raised, eyes showing murderous intent to finish the fight there and then.

• • •

The Occultists raised their weapons and lunged at the isolated Cleric.

The first Occultist ran towards Mikieru with a long sword poised to deliver a thrust. Discreetly, Mikieru raised one his hands near his chin, and—when the thrust came—threw his other hand outward, hacking the Occultist’s arms aside and slamming an elbow between the Occultist’s eyes. The first Occultist fell backwards, blood flowing profusely from his nose.

Almost instantly, another thrust came, this time from a spearman. In one motion, Mikieru twisted his large frame, grabbing the spear with one hand and pulling the Occultist’s head forward. The Occultist lost his balance, almost falling forward while the Cleric steamrolled him in a circle.

With his hands occupied with one Occultist, another one jumped towards Mikieru with an axe raised high over his head. As he descended, Mikieru used his circular momentum to throw his leg backward in a turning back kick, landing his heel squarely in the falling Occultist’s midsection. As the stricken Occultist fell backward, his axe carving a small niche in the soil at Mikieru’s feet, the Cleric abruptly reversed the direction of his motion and flung the helpless Occultist in his hands into a small group of his peers approaching from the front.

While several of the Occultists fell in a heap in front of him, Mikieru sensed several others behind him with their weapons raised. Immediately Mikieru fell to one knee, grasping the end of the Redeemer with one hand and placing the elbow of his other hand under the other end. When the overhead weapon smashes came, Mikieru raised his arms over his head, unlatching the Redeemer from his coat and blocking four simultaneous weapon strikes with the shaft of the Long Mace. The Occultists looked on in disbelief.

The Cleric jumped to his feet, throwing the four Occultists backward. In one fluid motion, Mikieru delivered a Redeemer thrust, a back kick, a Redeemer slash, and another Redeemer thrust—all meeting their mark. The Cleric raised the menacing long mace up in the air and twirled it in his hands as if it was as light as a wooden quarterstaff. Then he stopped, the Redeemer wedged under one arm and the other raised forward in a receiving gesture.

• • •

Garrione frowned when he saw his soldiers cautiously hold their attacks, even when they had the Cleric surrounded. The Knight dismounted his Peco and took a few steps toward the battle, shouting the words:

“He resists! He maintains that we will not exact the justice we rightfully deserve! He will learn!”

Those words were enough to stir enough hatred in the Occultists for them to rise into an uncontrollable fury, lunging with reckless abandon at the isolated Cleric.

• • •

Jared and the villagers watched in awe as Mikieru held his ground, swinging the Redeemer in circles and smashing it relentlessly at the attacking Occultists. From a chaotic center, bodies of stricken Occultists came flying out on occasion, victim of a vicious Redeemer blow—but there were too many of them for the Cleric to handle alone.

• • •

Mikieru soon sensed that the dozens of berserker Occultists would eventually overpower him. He waited until the last fleeting moment, when he looked and saw that he would not be able to counter all the incoming attacks at once, before he fell to one knee and raised one hand in a praying gesture.

The Occultists divulged at the Cleric from above and all sides, covering the center of the battle with a shadow in that single moment. Mikieru opened his eyes at the last moment, catching an intense glimpse of Garrione—once his good comrade-in-arms—past the bodies that came at him from all directions.

“God give me strength,” Mikieru intoned in Latin.

• • •

In an instant the center of the battle exploded in a brilliant flash of bluish-white light, sending dozens of Occultists flailing outwards helplessly. Mikieru was in mid-air, high above the mountain pass, the bluish-white aura of the Blessing trance in effect. Menacingly, he drew the Redeemer back in the prelude of a vicious smash—aimed at Garrione, who stood at the far end of the mountain pass.

Garrione grinned, seeing Mikieru employ the powerful self-enhancement spell that he had seen several times before. Casually, while Mikieru descended towards him, Garrione unsheathed from his back a large sword—one that had a blade seven feet long and eight inches wide—and held it with two hands.

Mikieru’s eyes widened at the sight of the huge sword. To the best of his knowledge, Garrione used a claymore—this new sword, however, was much larger than any he had ever seen in his life.

Garrione spun on his feet twice, gathering momentum for a counter. At the exact moment, the Knight threw the blade in a rising arc, meeting Mikieru’s Redeemer smash with a resounding clang that echoed loudly up and down the mountain pass.

The Cleric stared in disbelief, his large frame still off the ground, while Garrione held him up with his sword. A glint of orange light flashed from the base of the Knight’s blade and moved along the surface until it consumed the metal entirely with a brilliant luminance—and a searing heat.

Garrione yelled, achieving the completion of his counter and swinging his sword outwards. Mikieru flew backwards, up to the side, the Redeemer still in his hands. As the Cleric flew towards the face of the mountain pass walls, he jabbed the long mace viciously at the rock, embedding one of its ends into a jagged cavity. Then, with his feet on the rock face and one hand grasping the shaft of the Redeemer, he looked down at Garrione from over fifty feet up in the air. The Cleric’s mouth tightened—he had not expected the Knight to be strong enough to counter the Blessing.

Worse still, he saw the flames emanating from Garrione’s sword and realized he was dealing with an elemental weapon—one that was strong enough to stand up to the Redeemer.

Below him, the villagers gasped in horror at the turn of events, and the Occultists gave a dark, rousing cheer for their ultimate leader.

• • •

End of Chapter Eight

[zakky]

Chapter Nine
Set Into Motion This Dark Plan Is

“Ack!” Shin-ju rasped, falling backwards after Nobujiro’s Katana carved a neat wound on his shoulder. The boy instinctively leaped away from his attacker, grimacing as his hand nursed the cut.

Shin-ju landed on his feet, but fell to his knees soon after. He was at a loss—his raw speed and skill was no match for the calculated moves of a Komichi Na Ryuuki practitioner. Even Blessing failed to put him on an even footing with Nobujiro.

“You see, little one?” Nobujiro mocked, raising a hand in his explanation. “There is nothing you can do against this tide. You cannot escape it. None of us can.”

The boy froze, slowly lifting his eyes to his attacker.

“It has been fated. It matters not how hard you try to defeat me. Set into motion this dark plan is. Nature has willed it. Heaven has willed it. The Tao has willed it. Be wise, Nomad child. Submit to the powers that be and see the prophecy fulfilled in all its glory.”

Shin-ju’s mouth closed. He finally knew what Nobujiro was talking about.

“The One Who Waits,” Shin-ju spat. “You are working for the Taishou.”

Nobujiro laughed. “Do not delude yourself into thinking that I am to congratulate you on your realization. I well-nigh gave away my Master’s secret when I told you he was one who would not be stopped. Not that it matters. Your life is to end today, by the will of the One, and the lives of your pitiful friends to follow in due time.”

Shin-ju tried in vain to get to his feet when he saw Nobujiro grasp his Katana with two hands. The Payon Knight was going to kill him.

Desperately, Shin-ju’s eyes darted between Nobujiro in his weapon-quicken aura and the ground at his feet. He tried to remember Akira’s lessons about Komichi Na Ryuuki. If he were to defeat Nobujiro, he would need to know the mechanics of the Payon Knight’s potent fighting style…

• • •

Komichi Na Ryuuki flows with the Tao. Phenomena occur when they do because the greater balance sees it fit. A Komichi Na Ryuuki fighter feels no malice, spite, or anger towards his opponent.

No malice, spite, or anger, Shin-ju wondered, the tension in his face and limbs easing at the thought. Only what needs to be done?

Komichi Na Ryuuki flows with the Tao. Like how the Yin opposes and complements the Yang at all times, the Komichi Na Ryuuki fighter switches between pure offense and pure defense at will during combat. It is only at the curved line between the Yin and the Yang—the thin, infinitely uncertain overlap of the two forces—that a Komichi Na Ryuuki fighter can hope to be defeated.

On the thin overlap of the two forces? Shin-ju thought. I wish I asked Mr. Akira what he meant by that! Damn!

Above all, Komichi Na Ryuuki is not to be used with malice. It is the Grandmaster’s will that the sword only be used for good. It is then that the Komichi Na Ryuuki practitioner will realize the full extent of the Fighting Art’s power.

Only for the good, Shin-ju concluded. Nobujiro is not using Komichi Na Ryuuki to its limits…

Which means…

…Nobujiro has a weak point.

…

…AND I KNOW WHAT IT IS!

• • •

In a single instant, Shin-ju grasped his right forearm. He opened his right hand and used all his might to conjure a small ball of light under his palm. Then he looked up just in time to see Nobujiro standing over his kneeling position, his Katana already on its downswing towards Shin-ju’s neck.

Nobujiro’s blade met nothing but air.

“Nani—” Nobujiro spat, instinctively jumping back to a defensive position.

Too late, the Payon Knight saw Shin-ju’s foot swing inwards and slamming its instep into his hands. Nobujiro gaped in confusion as his Katana came flying out of his hands, viciously kicked aside by the boy.

Shin-ju’s position changed in a split-second!

“I understand now,” Shin-ju whispered as he landed on his kicking foot. “The uncertain overlap between the two forces… a Komichi Na Ryuuki fighter is vulnerable when he switches between offense and defense.”

Shin-ju turned his fiery gray stare into Nobujiro’s face.

“Especially one who uses the Fighting Art to his own ends!” Shin-ju yelled.

Without his sword, Nobujiro feebly tried to defend himself as his body fell victim to a ferocious barrage of kicks—an axe kick to his forehead, two lighting-fast back-kicks to the midsection and throat, and finally a sweeping somersault flash kick that slammed under his chin.

“Im—impossible…” Nobujiro managed to mutter in mid-air, seeing Shin-ju’s form once more as he somersaulted backwards in recoil to the powerful flash kick.

Shin-ju yelled as he lunged at Nobujiro’s falling form, flinging his entire right side forward and smashing a closed fist into the Payon Knight’s armored chest. The armor dented inwards from the crushing final blow, and Nobujiro flew helplessly backwards before crashing into a pine tree, shaking it to its tips above the forest canopy.

The Nomad boy gasped, immediately feeling the strain from the exertion and the pain in his wounds. He grasped his shoulder as he slowly approached the motionless form of Nobujiro. The Payon Knight was unconscious, lying face-down in front of the pine tree. A few pine cones fell on his back, shaken off their branches by the impact.

“I… I don’t understand,” Shin-ju whispered to himself. “I believed Mr. Akira’s lessons on the pre-destiny set by Tao… I believed Nobujiro when he said there was no escaping fate... and yet… I defeated him? And yet… I’m alive?”

There was not a sound in the forest, save for the morning wind blowing through the trees. The boy’s attention was so focused on the mysterious turn of events that he did not notice, behind him, several iron-tipped arrows drawn well back into longbows… aimed at him.

Shin-ju turned around—and froze.

• • •

Mikieru pulled the Redeemer free from the rock face and plummeted fifty feet down into the mountain pass below. His feet slammed into the ground harmlessly, and the Cleric stood up and faced Garrione one more time.

The two old friends looked daunting in their face-off. Garrione was heavily armored in gold full-plate mail, and Mikieru was menacing in his armored Cleric’s coat. Their weapons were equally intimidating—a large silver quarterstaff-mace pitted against a seven-foot long sword wrapped in flames.

“The name?” Garrione laughed, seeing Mikieru’s eyes on his burning sword. “Kitsune, allow me to introduce you to Sinjustice. Forged by the best swordmakers in Midgard and cast in nothing but the cold, clean sheath of justice. With this, I will hunt down all those who have spat on our honor and singe them with the trial by fire that they truly deserve.”

“Singe-justice,” the Cleric repeated. “Apt.”

“We are the same, Kitsune,” the Knight-Mage declared. “But if you continue to stand in our way, do not think yourself any different from those fools who betrayed us.”

Mikieru said nothing.

“Not another word, then,” Garrione mocked, raising Sinjustice above his head.

Mikieru’s eyes widened when he felt the air—and the elemental mana—around him swirl violently. Instinctively he flung himself to the side, barely avoiding the tongues of flame that exploded outward from his original position.

Napalm Beat! Mikieru thought, recognizing the Sorcery as he rolled on the ground. The sword gives Garrione the power to cast Mage spells!

Mikieru jumped to his feet. Too late, he saw several bolts of fire flying from Sinjustice’s blade towards him.

Fire Bolt, too? The Cleric thought madly, holding the Redeemer horizontally in front of him in defense. This is not good…

With his Blessing-amplified strength, Mikieru rotated the shaft of the long mace in ever-quickening circles. The bolts of fire met the Redeemer in loud hissing sounds, dissipating and deflecting off of it.

As soon as the last fire bolt bounced off the Redeemer, Mikieru let go. His hands were on fire. The long mace flew from his hands, propelled by the torque of the Cleric’s defensive move, and bounced on the ground several meters away from him. Hidden among the villagers, Jared swore he saw smoke rising from the shaft of the Redeemer.

Mikieru quickly doused the flames on his gloved hands on his Cleric’s coat. Then he looked up at Garrione’s original position. The Knight-Mage was not there.

The Cleric looked upwards and saw Garrione’s huge form descending upon him, his fiery sword raised high above his head.

Mikieru immediately jumped backwards, avoiding the blade, but there was no escaping what happened next. Garrione, oblivious to the Cleric’s evasion, slammed the blade into the ground and yelled:

“MAGNUM BREAK!”

The Cleric gaped as a ball of fire erupted around Garrione and expanded towards him. On instinct, Mikieru crossed his forearms in front of his face in defense—and the flames tore through his frame.

The villagers screamed—and the Occultists cheered—as Mikieru crashed onto his back and skidded to a stop. The Cleric lay motionless for a few moments, smoke rising from the burnt fabrics of his Cleric’s Coat.

Garrione breathed deeply, feeling the strain of the powerful move’s execution. He smiled in satisfaction, unperturbed even as Mikieru showed signs of life and struggled back to his feet.

Mikieru gasped as he stood on two feet, his arms dangling from his shoulders. He was dazed. The battery of blade and fire overwhelmed him, and now he was caught without the Redeemer in his hands.

Yet there was no emotion in his face when he looked into Garrione’s eyes again. He said no word as he took his burnt Cleric’s Coat from his shoulders and flung it aside. Then he assumed a passive defensive stance… very calmly.

“We are the same, Garrione,” Mikieru intoned. “I seek justice as well… for what you have done to these people, your people, and the people of Al de Baran.”

• • •

“Matte!” a breathless female voice yelped from behind the bowmen. “I know him! He is with us!”

Shin-ju’s half-closed eyes widened at the sound of the familiar voice. From behind the bushes, the bowmen rose to their feet and lowered their longbows when a kimono-clad young girl came darting through their midst towards the Nomad boy.

Shin-ju exhaled heartily. “Yoriko,” he muttered, feeling the tension leave his existence at the sight of the girl.

“Shin-ju-kun! You are alive!” the girl squeaked, grasping the boy’s arms as if trying to hold him up. “I am so happy!”

The boy nodded, his eyes instead fixed on the soldiers behind the girl. He made a quick head count, estimating a platoon-sized force.

“Shin-ju?” Akira’s voice came, moving through the soldiers’ ranks. “What is going on? Why are you here? And… what did you do to him?”

Everyone within earshot of Akira turned to stare at Nobujiro’s motionless form, lying face-down behind the boy.

“It’s… it’s a trap, Mr. Akira,” Shin-ju said, feebly grasping Yoriko’s kimono sleeves for support. “The Taishou… the Taishou has betrayed us. He’s working with Garrione. He’s after Jared’s Stone.”

Akira nodded grimly. “I know.”

“You… you do?”

• • •

Over the next fifteen minutes, Akira and his platoon set up a temporary camp to secure Nobujiro and to regroup—it seemed as though they left Payon in a hurry. As Akira explained himself to Shin-ju, it soon became clear—they were all fooled.

Akira had noticed that he had not received any field reports from the supposed decommissioning of 500 Payon Knights from the Sograt Garrisons for four days. Two days’ delay alone was already cause to worry. Despite his efforts, he was not given any information from the Taishou’s War Council. It wasn’t until he received a reply from his own informant in the Sograt Garrisons that he realized something was terribly wrong.

According to Akira’s informant, three thousand Payon Knights loyal to the Taishou was decommissioned from the Sograt Garrisons. The 3,000 were not chosen at random, as well—it seemed as though they had been pre-selected and were somehow aware of it. In addition, they were not ordered to go to Prontera—they were instead ordered to ride directly to Al de Baran.

“And then, early this morning, I received word from another informant in Al de Baran… he said the Machine City was on fire,” Akira explained. “I knew Garrione does not have enough men under his arm to bring Al de Baran to its knees. It led me to the improbable conclusion that the anarchy was not started by the Occultists… but by the 3,000 decommissioned Payon Knights.”

Shin-ju nodded, wincing slightly as Yoriko cleaned the wounds on his arms. “Were you able to confirm the reports?”

”I had no time,” Akira admitted. “But knowing the situation, I had to risk erring on the side of caution—I immediately took Yoriko and one hundred of those loyal to me and rode out of Payon as soon as possible. I felt I was in danger, and so was my daughter.”

The Nomad boy nodded again, lowering his head. “I’m… I’m just glad you’re both okay, Mr. Akira.”

“Now tell me, Shin-ju-kun… why are you here? And where are Mikieru and Jared?”

Shin-ju swallowed slightly. “I… left the party, Mr. Akira. I left them and headed back towards Payon. I wanted to make sure Yori… I wanted to make sure both of you were okay.”

Yoriko tried her hardest not to turn red when she heard that.

“You left them?” Akira repeated, dumbstruck. “Why? What happened?”

“We were… attacked, Mr. Akira. The four escorts sent by the Taishou were Occultists in disguise. Three of them tried to kill us in our sleep, but Senpai—Mikieru—saw through the ruse somehow. He was able to stop the three. The fourth was Nobujiro. We were all assuming he was headed for Al de Baran, but in fact he was returning to Payon. I ran into him on my way here.”

“He was returning to Payon… which means…”

“He was in the Taishou’s service.”

Akira rose, a grim look on his face. “Where are Mikieru and Jared now, Shin-ju?”

“They’re probably on their way to Al de Baran by now…”

Akira nodded at the boy’s answer, immediately turning towards his soldiers and bellowing commands to break camp and to ride on his order. Within minutes, all of them were on their Peco-pecos, riding at full gallop north—towards Al de Baran.

• • •

Mikieru pushed off the ground and lunged towards Garrione, fists clenched. The Knight-Mage immediately raised Sinjustice in front of his face and summoned another Napalm Beat spell—one that exploded inches behind the rapidly accelerating Cleric.

Undaunted, Garrione raised the flaming sword high above his head and threw it down in an arc, releasing several bolts of fire that snaked through the air towards Mikieru with unerring accuracy.

Mikieru suddenly changed direction, and instead of running towards Garrione he sprinted towards the rock face. The fire bolts crashed into the ground behind him as he evaded the spell with his amplified speed.

Jared and the villagers gaped in awe as Mikieru planted his feet on the cliff face of the mountain pass and ran vertically at an angle towards Garrione. The last fire bolt slammed into a boulder that Mikieru had leapt off of, sending it tumbling down the rock face and slamming in front of the stunned Occultists watching the fight.

Garrione grinned, seeing Mikieru’s form spiraling in mid-air towards him. He tried not to laugh, truly amused by the Cleric’s desperation tactic. As Mikieru descended, the Knight-Mage spun on his feet, gathering momentum—and red-hot flames—into his blade.

“It ends now!” Garrione yelled, throwing his sword in a two-handed downward slash aimed at Mikieru’s shoulder.

“MAGNUM BREAK!”

The Knight-Mage failed to notice that one of Mikieru’s hands was clenched on his chest, flicking outward as Sinjustice swung in and opening at the last moment. The Cleric shouted, in a voice louder than Garrione’s:

“KYRIE ELEISON!”

Garrione’s eyes widened as his sword met something much harder than he had expected. A loud sound—seemingly that of a tolling church bell—accompanied the impact, and the Knight-Mage stared at the unbelievable fact that Mikieru had stopped Sinjustice with one of his hands.

Mikieru grimaced as the flames tore through his body once more. Kyrie Eleison managed to stop Sinjustice’s blade from cleaving him in two, but the clear shield spell was not powerful enough to block the magical flames that accompanied Magnum Break. It was all he could do to open his free hand and summon a ball of mana—about a foot in diameter, and pulsating with pure organic energy.

In that single chaotic moment after Sinjustice met Kyrie Eleison, Mikieru flung his other arm forward and released the ball of mana, throwing it squarely into the flaming blade.

“HOLY LIGHT!”

Garrione let loose a prolonged grunt as the ball of crackling antimatter slammed into his sword and pushed him back, back, and further back, his greaves leaving two jagged cracks on the ground as Mikieru’s Holy Light carried him thirty meters back from the original impact point.

The Occultists watching the fight made sounds of trepidation as their leader was pushed back—the villagers were too stunned by the bright flash that accompanied Holy Light that none of them made a sound.

Mikieru landed on the ground and fell on one knee, gasping for air. He wiped his lip with the back of his hand and looked up, seeing Garrione and a raised Sinjustice thirty meters away. It wasn’t until the dust and smoke cleared that the Cleric saw the extent of the damage he had delivered.

Garrione was panting, staring at the armor on his arms. Sinjustice was unharmed by the Holy Light orb, but his armored gauntlets were shattered into several jagged pieces, some of which dug painfully into the Knight-Mage’s skin.

Garrione raised his eyes from his bleeding hands to Mikieru. He had not expected Mikieru to have known Kyrie Eleison and Holy Light—none of their experiences together in the Frontier War had forced the Cleric to use those skills. The Knight-Mage gritted his teeth at the idea that he had grossly underestimated his former comrade—and now paid for it. Already, Mikieru had already risen to his feet and was charging another pulsating orb in his hands.

The Knight-Mage closed his eyes in resignation, his grip easing around Sinjustice’s hilt and the flames on its blade dying down. In a casual manner, he reached behind him and strapped the sword to his back in a gesture that the fight was over.

Mikieru mimicked the gesture, releasing his old on the Holy Light spell and dissipating its mana into thin air. “So,” he said out loud, “am I to understand that we are to call this a draw?”

“Quite, Kitsune,” Garrione answered, raising his hand and giving signals to his soldiers. “I have underestimated you. You are more than what you seem. You may in a sense say that I have lost some taste for Wycrow and his Stone… and instead, I find the prospect of a second battle with you much more appealing.”

Mikieru looked behind him. The Occultists, although bewildered at their leader’s abrupt concession, obeyed unquestioningly. They picked up their injured comrades and limped past the Cleric towards Garrione. Some of them shot defiant looks at Mikieru as they passed by.

Garrione mounted his Peco-peco and faced the villagers, issuing his final warning to Jared.

“Wycrow! Hear this! Napolde is alive for now! But unless you show yourself in Al de Baran before the Clock Tower strikes noon tomorrow, she dies! I will not say this again!”

Hidden in the village, Jared shuddered at the sound of Napolde’s name. He greatly feared the undeniable fact that he had to go back into the Machine City, but he was relieved at the news that Napolde was still alive… or so Garrione said.

“And as for you, Kitsune,” Garrione warned, pointing a bloody finger at the Cleric, “you are to accompany Jared to Al de Baran. You have twenty-four hours. We will meet at the Clock Tower square to finish our dealings. You will honor this ultimatum, if you value your life and the lives of these… as you would call them… innocents.”

“These people are no longer your bargaining chips, Garrione,” Mikieru replied. “This is between you and me.”

“You know not of what you speak, Kitsune. Circumstances might suggest to you that this is a blind search for power and vengeance, but this is just the beginning. Do not fool yourself. These people are not in safety yet. This is only the beginning, Kitsune, and mark my words… only one of us will live to see the end.”

With that vague, dire warning, Garrione turned around and rode away. His soldiers followed him. Mikieru waited until the riders were but a cloud of rising dust at the mouth of the mountain pass before he limped towards the Redeemer to pick it up.

“Come! We must help him!”

Audible whispers came from the villagers, and Mikieru soon found a few able-bodied men offering to help him stay on his feet. A man tried to pick the Redeemer off the ground, only to solicit the assistance of two other men, one of whom was Ranche, after a few vain attempts.

Ranche looked on with awe as he and the two other men lifted the heavy quarterstaff-mace and followed the limping Cleric back to camp. He thought about how Mikieru chose to stand in Garrione’s way to protect them… putting his own life on the line as if it was worth nothing. It amazed him that a stranger—one that he even called a traitor only minutes ago—would willingly stand for their right to live.

Who is this man? Ranche thought to himself. What does it mean to walk the path he walks?

• • •

Gorban and the villagers broke camp and moved south to Prontera soon after the battle. The village elder had left food, water, and blankets for Mikieru and Jared, who had opted to remain in the mountain pass. The Cleric had to recuperate quickly—Garrione had given them twenty-four hours, and Al de Baran was still an eight-hour ride away.

After receiving several well-wishes and words of gratitude from the villagers, Mikieru and Jared found themselves alone in the mountain pass once again.

Jared had found a cave not far from the original campsite, and decided to build a fire inside. While he cooked a batch of vegetable soup, sweetmeats and rolls, Mikieru lay on his back, wrapped in a blanket.

The Merchant had to say something. He was the cause of all this. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mikieru had guessed his thoughts.

“No words need to be said between us, Jared,” Mikieru said, his eyes closed. “We both did what needed to be done. That is all there is to it. That is all that is important.”

Jared cleared his throat. The Cleric’s comments made him feel even worse.

“I just feel so helpless, Mike… that’s all,” he replied. “It’s just that by doing the right thing, I’m putting you in danger. It’s just that by doing what needs to be done, I made all those people leave their homes. I look at all this… and I can’t find a single damned reason why keeping this Stone was the right thing to do.”

An audible exhalation came out of Mikieru’s mouth. “I believe in you, Jared. I believe keeping the Stone was the right thing to do. And you do not have to worry about me. We are doing the right thing… and nothing makes me happier than doing what is right.”

Jared wearily raised his eyes from the steaming pot over the fire. He looked at Mikieru as the Cleric weakly lifted his silver cross off his chest and eyed it quietly.

The Merchant wondered why Mikieru was so sure of things. Perhaps the Cleric had seen enough in the Frontier War to know for a certainty the difference between right and wrong? Or perhaps the Church taught him? Whatever it was, he wanted to know—he was in desperate need to convince himself that this path was indeed the right one.

“Why do you fight, Mike?” Jared asked. “What’s it all for?”

Mikieru laid the cross back on his chest again. “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing, Jared,” the Cleric answered after a thoughtful moment. “I am only doing that which is expected of me.”

• • •

Night fell over the Northern Realms.

Akira and his riders have been riding for the past twelve hours. They stopped when darkness fell, and set up camp in the hilly fields east of Prontera.

Akira made his rounds in the camp, meeting with his captains and giving instructions to ride out at first light. Al de Baran was still ten hours away, and they were already too late as they were.

The bright lights and the distant murmur of activity in Prontera was calming for many of the riders. Shin-ju was no exception—as soon as Akira’s tent was put up, he plopped down onto one of the futons. He didn’t even stop to take off his shoes—he was dead tired from two days’ lack of sleep and the battle with Nobujiro earlier that day. Already, he was feeling his consciousness slip into oblivion, drifting away into the one silence of the Prontera foothills and the quiet, collective hum of the Northern Capital’s citizens.

He snapped back into wakefulness when he felt his shoes being taken off.

“Ai,” Yoriko squeaked. “I am sorry, Shin-ju-kun… I did not mean to wake you…”

Shin-ju said nothing, but tried to push himself into a position where he could see her.

“Please, do not get up… you must get some rest…”

Naturally, Shin-ju sat up and faced the kneeling girl.

“It’s… it’s great to see you, Yoriko,” Shin-ju said quietly. “I… was so worried.”

Yoriko smiled, nodding. “Me, too,” she replied. “The Tao has been good to us both.”

“Yeah, the, uh… Tao,” he stammered, all of a sudden remembering his victory against Nobujiro.

“Is something wrong, Shin-ju-kun?” she asked, reaching up to feel his forehead. “Something is bothering you?”

“No… it’s just…” Shin-ju began.

The boy’s mind was raging. He remembered that he used to be convinced by the power of the Tao to predict one’s circumstances in the future. He knew he was supposed to be dead by now, but instead he survived. He defeated an agent of the Taishou. He managed to go against what, in Nobujiro’s words, was an inescapable tide.

How?

“Shin-ju-kun?” Yoriko asked, worried.

Shin-ju sighed and lay down on the futon again, his eyes on the roof of the tent. “Yoriko… do you believe in Fate?”

Yoriko thought about this for a moment, leaving Shin-ju to continue.

“I don’t know if you’ve felt this before, but… I just felt it today. It was a sensation… not guilt… but it made me feel as though I had done something terribly wrong. I felt as though I had gone against the will of the Tao… I’m alive when I should be dead. That’s all… it just bothers me, not knowing whether or not I did the right thing.”

The girl listened. Then a smile escaped her countenance.

Shin-ju saw her smile, and he turned to look at her questioningly.

“The Tao is very good to me,” Yoriko gushed quietly. “I am so happy. You did nothing wrong, Shin-ju-kun. If you are alive today, I would very much like to think that it is because of me.”

“You?” Shin-ju asked, wanting to understand what she meant.

“Yes,” she said, inching towards the boy’s side. “You remember that night at the Temple Grounds? We went to an altar and made our wishes known to the Tao?”

Shin-ju nodded slowly.

“This was what I wished, Shin-ju-kun. I wished that you would find what you were looking for… whatever it might have been. You have not found it yet, have you?”

He shook his head after a moment’s reflection.

“Then you did not go against the Tao. Instead, the Tao is very much with you… how good it must be to us, now that it is keeping true to my wish. You did nothing wrong.”

Shin-ju closed his eyes, allowing himself to smile a bit. “You made… that wish… for me?” he whispered, the contentment slowly washing away the apprehension in his mind.

“Um,” Yoriko whispered back, lying down in the futon beside him. “And I do wish you find what it is you are looking for… very, very soon.”

After a few moments, Shin-ju fell asleep. Yoriko stayed up for a while longer after he dozed off, watching his sleeping form with a very contented… almost affectionate… manner.

• • •

The thatch roofs of the mud huts were on fire.

Gasping, Shin-ju madly looked around him. There were gigantic towers of flame leaping into the black sky. Screaming people were running around in the blind chaos. Bloody corpses littered the rocky ground. He was desperately looking for… someone.

“Isaac!”

Shin-ju wildly turned his head to the shrill female scream. In the dark, he recognized the teary, pale blue eyes on the little Nomad girl who was running towards him.

“Naomi!” he yelled back in his... youthful… voice…

Shin-ju ran towards the little girl as fast as his bare feet could carry him. Quickly he swept her into his arms and looked around for a way out of the carnage. When he spotted an exit between two rows of burning huts, he rose to his feet and sprinted for it.

Shin-ju jumped over several bloody corpses and, amid the screams all around him, emerged into a dark, grassy clearing. The little girl in his arms wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her with him. He had to get as far away from the village as quickly as possible.

Then he heard a Peco-peco’s squawk a few meters in front of him. He stopped running and stared ahead.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Shin-ju saw several armored men on Peco-pecos, armed with swords, spears, and crossbows. The fire from the burning village behind him reflected in their blades, armor, and eyes.

Shin-ju turned to run in another direction, but stopped as he heard Peco-peco footbeats in front of him. Looking around, he fearfully realized that he was surrounded by a platoon of Prontera Knights.

As he stood in the middle of their circle, a rider in a long black coat came forward. Shin-ju raised his eyes to the rider.

The rider was a Priest.

Shin-ju squinted--the Priest looked familiar.

The Priest was tall. He had long, half-parted brown hair. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.

“S-Sen… Senpai?” Shin-ju asked, his eyes filling with tears.

Shin-ju fell to his knees and protected the little girl with his body as Mikieru raised a bloody Mace over his head, aiming for the Nomad boy’s nape.

“Why?”

• • •

“So,” a soft female voice asked, “found it yet?”

• • •

Shin-ju sat bolt upright on the futon, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His heart was beating wildly, and his breathing was pained. He tried to remember the frightening things he saw in his dream.

Senpai tried to kill me? Shin-ju thought wildly. Why?

He made a move to get off the futon, but stopped when he realized that Yoriko was still beside him. The girl was sound asleep, the fingers of one hand entwined around his sleeve.

And I do wish you find what it is you are looking for… very, very soon.

Yoriko, Shin-ju thought, calming down at the sight of her pretty face.

Slowly, the boy leaned down, brushed a few strands of her long black hair from her face, and placed a kiss on her cheek.

“Thank you,” he whispered. Then he pulled his sleeve free from her fingers and got up from the futon. He took his shoes and exited the tent as quickly and as quietly as he could.

• • •

Akira was in the War Tent with his officers discussing their plans for the upcoming approach to Al de Baran when they heard a slight commotion outside. Akira stepped out to see what was going on, his astonished eyes adjusting to the darkness in time to see Shin-ju riding away from camp on his Peco-peco.

Shin-ju was northbound.

• • •

End of Chapter Nine

[missionpupa]

im sure its all good, im just too lazy to read all of this if im gonna start from begining. :P

[zakky]

Originally Posted by missionpupa

im sure its all good, im just too lazy to read all of this if im gonna start from begining. :P

LOL!

Thank you anyway.

[zakky]

Chapter Ten

Al de Baran On Fire

Mikieru and Jared got up and began the ride to Al de Baran an hour before the sun rose. Neither said much during the ride over the Mjolnir Mountain Range. Both of them knew that today, their questions would be answered—and that this day might be their last.

Jared’s worst fears came to manifest when, after eight hours of riding, they crested a ridge over the Al de Baran’s bare foothills and beheld the Machine City for the first time.

Al de Baran was not a city by any means—it was a loose conglomeration of coal mining villages that grew on the Mjolnir foothills and bonded together under a Steward. Houses, which were little more than glorified hovels, were grouped in clusters that rose from the low wall around the front and sides of the Machine city towards the mountainside behind it. The ancient Clock Tower, which was Al de Baran’s only bow to vanity, could be seen faintly from where Mikieru and Jared stood—if one squinted enough to see it through the rising pillars of smoke and dust.

Northfolk and migrants from the Republic of Schwartzvald have been settling in the villages in and around Al de Baran centuries before Prontera was established as the Capital of the Northern Realms. If it weren’t for the founding of the Payon Shogunate and Prontera’s commercial satellite, Izlude, Al de Baran might have been worthy of holding the title of Capital over Prontera. Its distance from the Midgard trade routes proved to its disadvantage, however, and Al de Baran had to settle with the reputation of being a Machine City, where coal miners, inventors, and potion alchemists made their living in quiet, indifferent solitude.

Now, however, Jared mournfully noted the absence of Al de Baran’s standards flying over the perimeter fortifications. They had been replaced by black banners bearing white swords and gavels—the new insignia, he surmised, of the Old Occultists.

“We’re here,” Jared exhaled.

“Yes,” Mikieru answered just as quietly.

“Are you scared?”

The Cleric took a moment before answering. “If this is the judgment I get for what I have done in the past, then I probably deserve it.”

Jared glanced at his friend dourly. “C’mon,” he said, disbelieving. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Mikieru lowered his eyes as he gave his reply. “You know, Jared… if you asked me that question five months ago, I would tell you that I was right. But that was five months ago. Back then, I had not met Shin-ju, and my past sins had not yet surfaced and faced me. Now… I would try to convince the both of us that this indeed is my judgment, if only to derive some semblance of sense from this madness.”

The Merchant stared at Mikieru for a few moments before turning to look at the Machine City once more. “Well, it’s done then,” he sighed. “I guess I ought to take this opportunity to thank you for doing this?”

An audible chuckle escaped Mikieru’s lips, and Jared turned to look at him again. The Cleric had a slight smile when they looked at each other.

“Save it for the ride home, Jared,” the Cleric said, flicking the reins on his Peco-peco. “This may be my judgment, but it does not change the fact that I will do everything I can.”

The Merchant watched as Mikieru rode down the ridge towards Al de Baran’s front gate-house. Then he allowed himself to laugh a little, also trying to convince himself that in some way, somehow, they would be able to survive this.

• • •

A horrid scene met them as they approached the front gates. The bodies of slain Knights and Constables were tied and raised on pikes that lined the approach to the gate. Jared gaped at the bodies, his hand over his mouth in dread, while Mikieru rode ahead, seemingly oblivious to the bodies and the smoke and the stench.

As if on cue, the solid oaken gates opened, pulled open by men in black bandanas. Mikieru and Jared rode through as though they expected it, drawing stares and jeering glances from the armed Occultists lining the streets.

Hundreds, maybe thousands, Jared thought apprehensively, eyeing the Occultists from under his hood. I never knew Garrione mustered this many Occultists… but how?

Mikieru stared straight ahead, on the browning cobblestone road that rose towards Clock Tower square. Occultists dotted his peripheral vision, but he paid no mind. He knew he would come to no harm until he reached the square—he knew Garrione too well. The Knight-Mage would not cheapen his quest for vengeance—or, as Garrione would unendingly insist, justice—by stabbing Mikieru and Jared in the back.

The sight carried on for a while, until Mikieru and Jared rode into the confines of Clock Tower square. The Merchant took off his hood to look up at the crumbling edifice at the end of the square—the face of the clock read five minutes to twelve.

Mikieru slowed his Peco’s pace to a trot, and Jared followed. They took time to notice that the Occultists were coming into the square seemingly from all directions. Everyone was here to watch their leader crush the two people standing between them and their goal.

The Cleric and the Merchant stopped at a point about a hundred paces from the steps of the Clock Tower. They waited. The Occultists settled into mobs around the square, eagerly waiting to see their leader.

And as the clock struck twelve, the bell tolled loudly—and the oaken double-doors slowly creaked open.

Garrione stepped out to be greeted by a loud cheer given by the Occultists. Jared shuddered at the sight of the seven-foot tall Knight-Mage, but Mikieru only tightened his lips.

The Knight-Mage was clad in his gold full-plate mail, and Sinjustice was in one hand. A long black cape billowed behind him as he descended the stone steps, followed by an entourage of burly Occultist bodyguards.

Garrione had a smirk on his lips. He reached the end of the stairs and stood there, his cape flying in the filthy wind, the large black blade of Sinjustice in full view for everyone to see. To Jared’s puzzlement, Garrione said nothing while his bodyguards moved away from their master and formed a group about thirty meters to the Knight-Mage’s right.

When his bodyguards stopped, Garrione turned to Mikieru and spoke for the first time.

“I knew you would not let me down, Kitsune,” he called. “You are no coward.”

Mikieru shook his head calmly. “I am not here for your sake, Garrione,” he answered.

“Oh?” the Knight-Mage laughed. “Excuse me, then. I was always under the impression that, in the eternal battle between good and evil, Priests are always the first to take up arms.”

Mikieru was not swayed. “Are you evil?”

“It depends,” Garrione mocked, raising Sinjustice’s blade to point at the Cleric. “Do you believe you are good?”

The Cleric cringed at Garrione’s mocking mind games. He shook his head in annoyance and decided to go straight to the point.

“Look, I have no desire to talk to you,” Mikieru said. “Where is she?”

“Oh?” Garrione laughed again, clearly enjoying having Mikieru at his mercy. “So she is your charge, now?”

“You claimed she lives,” came the Cleric’s impatient reply. “Where is she held?”

The Knight-Mage decided he had enjoyed himself enough, and he turned his head to nod at his bodyguards.

Unquestioningly, the burly Occultists parted to reveal, shackled in their midst, a distraught female Elf.

Jared lurched forward on instinct. “NAPOLDE!” he screamed. He made the attempt to ride towards her, but was held back by Mikieru’s gloved hand on his chest.

Napolde raised her face to Jared. Her face looked as though she had been crying. She gave him the look of one betrayed and weakly lipped the words to him:

Why did you come back?

At Garrione’s hand command, the Occultists unlocked the chains from her neck and wrists. They took their hands from her and slowly walked away, leaving her standing alone.

Mikieru’s eyebrows knotted at this gesture. What is the meaning of this? he thought.

Jared could not hold himself back. Tears brimming in his eyes, he shoved Mikieru’s arm aside and galloped towards her.

“NAPOLDE!” Jared screamed.

“NO!” Napolde screamed back.

“JARED, DON’T!” Mikieru shouted, too late.

Grinning evilly, Garrione lifted Sinjustice over his head, swung it in circles, and threw it in a downward slash aimed in Napolde’s direction. Almost instantly, everyone in Clock Tower square felt the violent movement of elemental mana as it centered around Napolde.

A bright flash—and a roaring, searing heat—exploded into life around Napolde. Jared’s Peco squawked loudly and reared up, throwing the Merchant off the saddle. Jared got up on his elbows and knees as Mikieru rode up beside him, and both of them gaped in fear at the tall tongues of flame that leaped upward from Napolde’s position.

“NO!” Jared yelled desperately. “NAPOLDE!”

“Jared!” Napolde’s voice came from behind the flames.

Mikieru squinted from behind his dark glasses. Through the leaping flames, he barely made out the Elf’s form—on her knees, but alive. The flames seemed to form a ring on the ground around her, preventing any hope of escape or rescue.

Garrione laughed loudly. “And you call yourself a Merchant, Wycrow? You should know better than anyone else that nothing in this world is free!”

Jared turned to Garrione with angry, teary eyes. “You BASTARD!” he yelled.

“You know what is needed to free her, Wycrow! Give me the Stone!”

In a total loss, Jared carelessly patted his jacket for the Stone—and Garrione immediately concluded that the Stone was on the Merchant’s person.

From behind the flames, Napolde heard Garrione’s demand. Helplessly, she craned her neck and wailed, “Jared, please DON’T!”

Panicked, Jared put both hands over the inside pocket where he hid the Stone, bewilderedly looking between Garrione and the ring of fire surrounding the Elf.

“She will suffocate in fifteen minutes, Wycrow! Do not delay her release!” Garrione yelled.

Jared looked away and shut his eyes tight. “Sh-shut up!” he yelled, shaking his head.

“Jared, do not give it to him! PLEASE!” Napolde begged, sobbing loudly.

“Fifteen minutes! She will die for your indecision, Wycrow! Surrender it!” Garrione’s bellow came again.

“SHUT UP!” Jared bared his teeth, placing his hands over his ears.

“JARED, NO!” the Elf whimpered helplessly.

“She dies, Wycrow!” the Knight-Mage screamed. “Refuse to submit and her death is yours!”

• • •

“SHUT UP!”

Jared opened his eyes in surprise. Slowly he lifted his head from his hands and looked up, trying to see who said those two words.

Mikieru had dismounted and now stood between Jared and Garrione. The Knight-Mage frowned at the sight of the Cleric, watching with narrowed eyes as Mikieru took a few steps towards him, taking the Redeemer into his hands.

“No one dies today, Garrione!” the Cleric yelled loudly. “I challenge you!”

The Knight-Mage stared at his old ally with mild anger. He exhaled in exasperation, shaking his head. “What are you doing, Kitsune?” he asked. “You do nothing but accept the judgment of those above you, even when you know you have done nothing wrong. You perpetuate the injustice by not taking action, and instead you decide to stand against that which would be your saving grace!”

Mikieru raised the Redeemer. “Your hands do not hold my redemption, Garrione,” he finished. “It holds nothing but the fire of your greed.”

Now Garrione was visibly furious. He raised Sinjustice and summoned flames onto its black blade.

“You would do well not to insult me again, Kitsune,” he warned as he and Mikieru faced off. “Nothing… and no one… stands in my way.”

Mikieru fixed his gaze on the Knight-Mage even as he gave his final instructions to Jared.

“Jared, do me one favor,” the Cleric said calmly. “Move away. Do not find yourself in a position where you are closer to Garrione than I am. And do not worry… this will all be over in fifteen minutes.”

• • •

Mikieru attacked first. With his right hand, he charged a pulsating ball of Holy Light and flung it towards Garrione’s face. The Knight-Mage jumped aside, the orb flying past him and smashing into the Clock Tower’s stone steps and demolishing a part of the concrete railing. Garrione grimaced as he eyed the damage—he had no trouble avoiding the spell’s line of fire, but he also knew that even his armor would not be strong enough to deflect its power.

Garrione turned his eyes back to Mikieru as he landed on the ground. The Cleric had vanished from his position. Wide-eyed, the Knight-Mage twisted around and instinctively raised Sinjustice in front of his face in defense. Mikieru was already beside him, already in mid-swing of a one-handed backhand Redeemer smash. The iron head met Garrione's flaming sword, thwarted.

The Cleric’s face showed no emotion as he maintained his lightning attack. He moved forward, swinging the Redeemer in arcs and trading blow after mighty blow with Sinjustice. Garrione was pressed back into defense, managing to halt Mikieru’s onslaught when his flaming sword managed to catch the Cleric’s long mace on its way down to his head.

Garrione held Sinjustice with two hands as he pushed Mikieru’s heavy weapon away from his face. Mikieru twisted as he moved backwards, revealing another ball of Holy Light charging in his right hand. His back to the Knight-Mage, he threw the pulsing ball of light towards Garrione’s face with a flick of his wrist. The Knight-Mage ducked to avoid the Holy Light ball, only to see Mikieru’s boot rising towards his unprotected face.

Mikieru’s roundhouse kick slammed into Garrione’s jaw, and the Knight-Mage staggered backwards with a grunt.

The Cleric planted both his feet on the ground and lunged towards Garrione, the Redeemer held horizontally behind him in his left hand, his right hand leading the attack in front of him.

Too quickly, as if in momentary desperation, Garrione raised Sinjustice and looked though its ornate hilt. The tongues of flame enveloping the blade grew larger as the Knight-Mage summoned a Fire Bolt spell.

Sharp bolts of fire emerged from the flaming blade and whipped towards the rapidly-approaching Mikieru. The Cleric was too close, giving the fire bolts little time to adjust their trajectories, and Mikieru lightly leaped over them and threw the Redeemer in a downward smash aimed at Garrione's temple. Garrione, not recovering fast enough, threw his blade upwards in defense. He managed to block the Redeemer smash, but Mikieru was able to land on the ground and throw a side-thrust kick into Garrione's armored midsection. Once again, the Knight-Mage was thrown a few steps backward.

• • •

The Occultists who were watching roared in fury.

Jared manage to smile a bit, his eager eyes watching every precise move that Mikieru executed.

Garrione spat angrily as they faced off again. Mikieru had somehow seen through his fighting strategy. The Cleric was alternating throwing his Holy Light spells and attacking in close range, giving the Knight-Mage little time to recover and launch a calculated attack. This was Garrione’s one weakness—while his zeal for fighting was unmatched, he was not much of a tactician.

• • •

Damn it, the Knight-Mage fumed quietly. Kitsune hides his true skill. I cannot defeat him at this rate…

In front of him, Mikieru assumed another attacking stance—Redeemer in left hand, a crackling ball of Holy Light in his right. Garrione had no doubt that Mikieru would score another hit if they faced off now—and this time, there was no telling the hit would not be fatal if Mikieru willed it to be.

Garrione raised Sinjustice in front of his face and looked through its hilt. “I do not have time for this,” he muttered.

Mikieru squinted, looking at Garrione’s familiar pose.

Napalm, Mikieru thought quickly. I am fast enough to outrun it. When I attack when Garrione opens his mouth…

Garrione’s mouth opened to utter the Napalm incantation. At that instant, Mikieru charged forward, carried by his Blessing-enhanced speed.

“It is OVER!” Mikieru yelled.

The Cleric sprinted towards Garrione with incredible speed, the Redeemer and a fully-charged Holy Light orb poised to strike.

While uttering the incantation, Garrione opened his eyes and looked straight ahead—past the approaching Cleric. Mikieru’s eyes widened when he felt the violent swirling of mana that accompanied with every Napalm spell, realizing that it wasn’t centered in front of him…

…it was focused at a point a good distance behind him.

He is aiming at Jared! Mikieru thought madly. But HOW? He is outside Garrione’s range!

Instantly, Mikieru shot his foot forward and skidded low on the stone floor, violently flinging his arms and throwing both the Holy Light orb and the Redeemer towards Garrione’s inanimate form. The Cleric did not even wait to see if he hit the Knight-Mage—he immediately spun and sprinted towards Jared.

Garrione ducked, avoiding the long mace and crackling ball of antimatter as they passed over his head, never once taking his eyes off of Jared.

“JARED!” Mikieru screamed.

The Merchant's eyes widened as he watched Mikieru run towards him, both fists clenched on his chest. A moment later, Garrione completed the incantation, swung Sinjustice in circles, and shouted out the name of the spell as he threw the flaming blade downward:

“FIRE WALL!”

Mikieru reached Jared and turned around just as a huge fireball exploded around the two of them. Garrione took a step backward, looking away from the glare of the orange pillars of flame that rose towards the sky.

• • •

Within her own prison of flame, Napolde felt the ethereal indications of another Fire Wall spell cast—and she sensed it was cast at Jared. She tried to scream his name, only to cough violently from the thick black smoke.

• • •

When the original blast of fire weakened to a steady roar, the flames shortened enough to reveal Mikieru and Jared. Garrione smirked, truly amused by what he saw.

The Cleric was down on one knee, both his arms extended to his sides. His hands were open in a splayed manner, desperately holding onto two simultaneous Kyrie Eleison spells. This was an advanced application of the Kyrie Eleison defensive spell—to cast two of the clear shields together at the same time to form a formidable barrier that could deflect even magical energy to a certain extent. While the sphere shield managed to protect them from the ring of flame, holding it in place for longer than a few moments required a great deal of strength and mana—if Mikieru was anyone else, he would have succumbed to the exertion and released the spell prematurely, killing himself and Jared instantly.

Mikieru was gasping for air. “What is this?” he spat. The flames surrounding them continued to roar with frightening intensity.

Garrione laughed, knowing that he had pinned Mikieru in one place. “You are a formidable foe, Kitsune,” he admitted. “If you did not throw your weapon and that Holy Light spell at me, I might have been able to finish the incantations one second sooner, and you and Jared would have been the first to taste my justice. But, it seems, you are intent to avoid your judgment to your last breath.”

Mikieru winced as a small portion of the transparent sphere shield began to crack from the intense heat.

“Mike!” Jared yelled, groping in vain into his bags for anything to help the Cleric. “Hang in there!”

Garrione laughed again, hearing Jared’s words. “Yes, indeed,” he mocked. “Hang in there for as long as you can. Sinjustice’s Fire Wall lasts fifteen minutes. Do you think your little protection spell can last as long?”

Mikieru bared his teeth defiantly, sweat dripping off his face while he watched Garrione raise Sinjustice once more.

Garrione’s smile faded. He was about to summon another malevolent spell that would without a doubt finish off the Cleric and the Merchant, yet he simply allowed himself to look at the two for a moment longer.

The three old friends maintained their stares at each other for a few moments, as if the situation was a stalemate when it actually wasn’t.

The Knight-Mage sighed in resignation, raising Sinjustice above his head.

“Goodbye, my friends,” he muttered. “Your cowardice has become your undoing. I truly wish it did not have to end this way.”

Mikieru and Jared looked on helplessly as Garrione gathered mana—and flames—into Sinjustice. In another moment, Garrione would complete the incantation for Sinjustice’s most potent spell yet…

• • •

“The coward threatens when he is safe!”

Imprisoned in her cage of fire, Napolde still managed to hear the voice of challenge—and she opened her eyes in time to see, past the flames that snapped around her, a boy jump over the mobs of bewildered Occultists and her two trapped rescuers.

Garrione stopped in mid-sentence of his incantation, caught off-guard by the shrill, out-of-place voice that jabbed sharply at his repute. He opened his eyes in time to see the form of a young boy, seemingly to just have fallen from the sky, land on his feet in front of Mikieru and Jared.

Likewise, the Cleric and the Merchant stared at the youth who had leapt over their heads from behind and was now slowly getting to his feet, facing the Knight-Mage across the Clock Tower square.

“No,” Mikieru whispered in disbelief.

“You desire justice?” the boy challenged the Knight-Mage. “Deal with the victim.”

At once, Jared recognized the boy. The Merchant did not need to see the tan on his skin or the blue hair on his head—his voice and his fiery demeanor was all Jared needed.

Garrione looked on with noticeable incredulity at the form of the boy, forebodingly silhouetted by the tongues of flame that enveloped Mikieru and Jared behind him. The fire threw long black shadows that danced in front of the boy’s feet, making him seem larger and more intimidating than he truly was.

“What is this?” Garrione demanded to know. “Who addresses me?”

The boy glared at the Knight-Mage with intense gray eyes as he gave his answer.

“My name is Shin-ju Yang,” the Nomad boy answered. “And justice is to be had today, not by you… but by me.”

“You dare?” Garrione fumed, pointing Sinjustice at Shin-ju. “Ah, but I do recognize you. You are Kitsune’s protégé, yes? How wonderfully mad of you. Do you truly believe an insignificant worm like yourself can stop me? You will have no victory here, Shin-ju Yang, not when I am so close to achieving my purpose!”

Mikieru lurched forward and screamed. “Shin-ju! Do not do this! He will kill you if you fight him!”

Hearing Mikieru’s words, Shin-ju’s visage softened. He lowered his head, allowing his blue hair to fall over his eyes. He was silent for a moment, as if sorting his emotions before airing his side.

“I’m dead,” Shin-ju muttered, only loud enough to be heard by Mikieru and Jared. “Or dying, it doesn’t matter. Who’s to say I didn’t die three years ago in that forsaken wasteland of Sograt? What I intend to do right now is to get my answers… from you, Senpai. Then, if I die by his sword, I’ll take comfort from the fact that my death this time around has more purpose than the death I went through three years past.”

Mikieru listened to Shin-ju, only to shake his head slightly after. “Shin-ju, what are you saying?”

Shin-ju looked over his shoulder, and the Cleric saw the boy’s gray eyes staring straight into his.

“Hold on to the Kyrie Eleison shield for as long as you can, Senpai,” Shin-ju answered coldly. “I have questions for you.”

Mikieru and Jared stared at Shin-ju, mystified and taken aback by the boy’s order. They said nothing, even as Shin-ju turned back to Garrione and began taking steps towards the Knight-Mage.

“Garrione!” Shin-ju yelled. “Release them… all three of them… or I will make you.”

A smirk escaped the Knight-Mage’s lips, and he began laughing openly. “You?” he guffawed. “You will make me? You are as audacious as your vaunted Master, Shin-ju Yang, and maybe twice as deluded. Very well, then… make me, Shin-ju Yang. Who am I to deny you of your death-wish?”

Garrione began walking towards Shin-ju as well. “I will get my justice… and the Stone… this day.”

Then they stopped. The Knight-Mage raised Sinjustice, and flames roared to life along its long, black blade.

Shin-ju raised his clenched fists in a bare-handed fighting stance, and a bluish-white glow slowly emanated from his body as his Blessing trance came into effect.

It was only a few seconds before the battle between the Knight-Mage and the Cleric’s Apprentice began.

• • •

End of Chapter Ten

[zakky]

Chapter Eleven
The Cleric’s Apprentice

Garrione intended to take no chances. He had heard bits of information about his young opponent—first by a seemingly unassuming report by one of his majors in Prontera that a Nomad boy managed to defend himself against two extorting Occultists, then by the news that Jared Wycrow had evaded his captain Sarth and his swordsmen with the aid of a certain Nomad boy—and finally with the knowledge that Mikieru and Jared traveled from Prontera to Payon and managed to thwart an assassination attempt, again with a Nomad boy’s assistance.

But who was this boy? At first Garrione was tempted to dismiss Shin-ju’s involvement with Mikieru and Jared as consequential, yet here he was—standing in the way of his plans yet again. Now, for the first time, the Knight-Mage entertained the idea that there was truly something special about this boy—and he was to take no chances in this battle.

Expectedly, Shin-ju was the first to attack—he knew that he had fifteen minutes to somehow break Sinjustice’s hold over the Fire Walls that surrounded Napolde, Mikieru, and Jared. The boy pushed off the ground, leaving a rising swirl of dust in his original position as his Blessing trance propelled him towards the Knight Mage.

As soon as Shin-ju came within range, Garrione raised Sinjustice and summoned a Napalm spell.

Shin-ju noticed the familiar swirling of air and mana that he encountered during his fight with Sarth, and immediately put on a burst of speed, ripping through the air towards Garrione as the Napalm fireball exploded behind him.

“Just like your Master,” Garrione muttered, lowering his sword in a fighting stance. As Shin-ju flew towards him, a fist drawn back, Garrione spun on his feet once and threw a horizontal backhand slash aimed to cleave the boy in the midsection.

The flaming sword met nothing but air—Shin-ju had feigned leaping towards Garrione’s face and instead skidded off towards the Knight-Mage’s side. Garrione grunted in mild surprise.

His shoes skidding on the cobblestone pavement, Shin-ju immediately turned towards Garrione and swung his foot inward, slamming its instep behind Garrione’s knee. The Knight-Mage almost lost his balance, but was in no trouble since Shin-ju’s own speed carried the boy away from him.

Garrione snorted in amusement as he got back onto two feet, turning to face Shin-ju again. The boy was testing him, trying to ascertain the moves he was capable of.

“Do you really have time to play with me, Shin-ju Yang?” Garrione mocked. “Napolde dies a little more with each moment that you delay.”

As if spurred by this challenge, Shin-ju got up and darted towards Garrione again. This time, the Knight-Mage waited for Shin-ju’s attack to come. He was not about to waste his power over an insolent little Nomad such as this.

The Nomad boy evaded Sinjustice’s blade once more as it swung over his head, and he leaped up to throw a punch at the Knight-Mage’s jaw.

Garrione’s gauntleted hand reached up and caught Shin-ju’s Blessing-enhanced fist effortlessly—the boy gasped!

Grinning deviously, Garrione threw the same hand forward, slamming a metal-clad fist into Shin-ju’s temple. The Nomad boy let loose an expression of pain as he flew several feet backwards, landing violently on his back. He rolled only once before hastily jumping up to his feet—he knew that the Knight-Mage would follow through. Sure enough, Garrione was in the air, Sinjustice raised high above his head.

MAGNUM BREAK!

Shin-ju managed to avoid the blade as it came down, but he wasn’t fast enough to escape the wall of flame that expanded outwards after. Another audible shriek of pain was heard from him as he fell backwards.

As soon as the fireball dissipated, Garrione raised Sinjustice again and summoned Napalm. This time, the spell met its mark.

• • •

“Shin-ju!” Jared yelled.

Mikieru shook his head. “He cannot win,” he said dismally. “Garrione is much too merciless.”

Another portion of Mikieru’s Kyrie Eleison sphere began to crack under the heat of the Fire Wall.

• • •

“You were a fool to challenge me,” Garrione laughed loudly. “Your Master could not defeat me. What deludes you into thinking that you will succeed where he has failed?”

“Sh… shut up…” Shin-ju answered, only loudly enough to be heard by the Knight-Mage. He got up on all fours, smoke rising from the burnt fabrics of his jacket.

Garrione turned to look towards the direction of Mikieru and Jared, issuing another challenge. “Now, Wycrow!” he yelled. “The Stone will save yourself, Napolde, Kitsune… and now him!”

Jared shuddered at this ultimatum. Mikieru only shook his head—he did not need to tell the Merchant one more time.

“I’m… not… DEAD YET!” Shin-ju screamed, blindly jumping to his feet and rushing towards Garrione in a frenzy. The Knight-Mage turned back to the boy, grinning evilly as Shin-ju’s flying punch swung in one more time.

Garrione dodged and planted a rising knee into the incoming boy’s midsection. Shin-ju grunted loudly.

Then, while the boy was still in mid-air, Garrione threw his arms down, slamming the hilt of Sinjustice down onto Shin-ju’s back. Shin-ju fell heavily on the pavement, coughing once, before Garrione kicked him in the midsection and sent him flying backwards again.

Shin-ju’s stricken body rolled on the ground away from Garrione like a limp rag doll. He lay still for a moment, truly unable to move from the pain.

“See this, Wycrow,” the Knight-Mage called again. “How many more friends must you throw in front of you before you give me what I seek?”

• • •

With all her might, Napolde lifted a sleeve of her silk robe over her mouth and tried to breathe. She had heard the words of Garrione and another voice that she did not recognize. She had to see the one who had come at the last moment to spare them from an immediate death.

She got to her feet, and through teary red eyes she looked past the flames surrounding her. Garrione was standing tall and proud, his flaming blade raised high to deliver a deathblow to a blue-haired Nomad boy on the ground.

• • •

“You are a coward, Garrione!” Jared yelled helplessly. “This is not fair!”

The Knight-Mage did not hear Jared’s insult. His gaze was instead fixed on Shin-ju as the boy tried to get up once more.

This boy is resilient, Garrione thought as he walked towards the boy’s faltering form. In addition to his advanced Holy Art skill knowledge, he also exhibits a daring uncommon to his age.

Garrione pointed Sinjustice at Shin-ju and looked at Jared, issuing his final warning. “This is your last chance, Wycrow. Give me the Stone, or this boy is dead… and you will follow.”

This time, Jared could not convince himself to refuse. His hand shot into his pocket and drew out a small, three-faced gray rock. He raised it in the air and was about to shout his surrender to Garrione when:

”NO!”

Shin-ju shot to his feet, wobbling on his heels for a few moments. “No, Jared,” he said. “I’m not done.”

Garrione turned back to Shin-ju, a look of deep annoyance in his eyes. “You are truly insulting,” Garrione commented. “I wanted to find out more about you, Shin-ju Yang, believe me I did. But now I simply wish to kill you. You have wasted enough of my time.”

Shin-ju made an attempt to attack, but faltered in mid-step and fell to one knee. His Blessing trance was fading.

The Knight-Mage raised Sinjustice one last time. “Goodbye, devil.”

Garrione threw the flaming blade down at the boy.

MAGNUM BREAK!

“Shin-ju, NO!” Jared screamed, blinded by the fireball that expanded around Garrione.

• • •

Less than a moment after Sinjustice struck the ground, Garrione struggled to recover. He felt as though he had hit nothing besides the cobblestone pavement—and sure enough, as the glare and fireball dissipated, there was nothing in Shin-ju’s position save for a blackened crater caused by his sword.

Damn! Garrione thought, pulling Sinjustice free from the ground. He escaped!

At that moment, Shin-ju fell from the sky and landed behind Garrione’s hunched form. The Knight-Mage, wide-eyed, turned his head to look at the Nomad boy.

Shin-ju had leaped high over the Magnum Break fireball and landed just as the fireball dissipated!

His lanky arms spread like wings, Shin-ju leaped, twisted 540 degrees in mid-air, and slammed a flying roundhouse kick into the back of Garrione’s unprotected head. The Knight-Mage grunted in pain and tipped sideways as he hurriedly got up to his feet.

Shin-ju quickly landed on the ground and assumed a low defensive fighting stance, timing Garrione’s hasty counter-attack perfectly. As the Knight-Mage’s wild backhand slash came, Shin-ju lunged in, ducked under the blade, twisted on the sides of his feet, and landed a low spinning heel kick at the back of Garrione's right knee.

As Garrione’s right leg left the ground in recoil, Shin-ju completed his spin and threw his other leg forward, landing a sweeping roundhouse kick to the back of Garrione's left knee. The Knight-Mage grunted as he tipped backwards, his legs flying above his head.

Even Mikieru could not believe his own eyes when he saw Shin-ju’s next move. As Garrione’s body descended towards the ground, the boy planted his hand on the pavement and pushed off the ground with his feet, doing an incredibly taut one-handed handstand. His back was arched backward like a bow, his feet straight, toes pointing skyward. Then, instantly, Shin-ju’s hand left the ground, and the boy coiled inwards furiously like a stretched metal spring in violent recoil. Mikieru saw the boy execute two somersaults—or three, Shin-ju was moving too fast to tell—in mid-air before extending his extremities outward and burying a descending heel into Garrione’s navel just as the Knight-Mage crashed into the ground.

Garrione sputtered loudly, his eyes wide in pain. His extremities carelessly extended skyward in reflex, although his right hand still stubbornly gripped Sinjustice.

Shin-ju skidded away from Garrione in reaction to the somersault axe kick’s powerful recoil. As quickly as he could, he rolled onto one knee and prepared to attack again.

• • •

“I… I don’t believe it!” Jared sputtered, laughing incredulously. “He got him! He got Garrione!”

Mikieru nodded, grinning a bit. Good thinking, Shin-ju, he thought. Attack and get away. Hit him where his armor is weak. But in order to defeat him…

• • •

...I gotta disarm him, Shin-ju thought as he watched Garrione stiffly and angrily get up to his feet, Sinjustice still in his hands.

Garrione coughed and wiped spit from his lip. “Blue-haired monkey,” he cursed. “You just do not know when to quit.”

Garrione slowly raised Sinjustice in front of his face.

Shin-ju, thinking it was another Napalm spell, sprinted towards the vulnerable Knight-Mage once more. He abruptly stopped with a shock when he heard Garrione yell:

FIRE BOLT!

Shin-ju was frozen in his tracks. He was not aware of this particular spell! Blankly, he watched as several miniature fireballs blasted out of Sinjustice’s blade and flew towards him.

• • •

Oh no, Mikieru thought in horror. Shin-ju has no defense against this!

• • •

Jared screamed as Shin-ju instinctively ducked into a ball. There was nothing he could do as the fireballs flew into Shin-ju and exploded in several flashes of fiery light.

Garrione gasped and dropped his arms. Heaving, he tried to recover from the strain of casting the fire spells. The battle was wearing too long for him, and he was glad it was finally over.

Or so he thought.

Garrione’s smirk disappeared as the thick black smoke that billowed from Shin-ju’s position faded to reveal Fire Bolt’s damage.

The pavement was heaved up and blackened around the impact points, and hot smoke rose from a radius of three meters around Shin-ju—yet the boy was there, down on one knee, both arms outstretched, palms open.

The boy was surrounded by a sphere shield—translucent, but not murky enough to prevent Garrione from seeing Shin-ju’s gray eyes when they opened and shot yet another defiant glance at his own stare.

• • •

“Mike!” Jared gasped, noticing the similarity of the Cleric’s shield with Shin-ju’s. “That’s…”

“Kyrie Eleison Sphere Shield!” Mike exhaled in awe. “Shin-ju has just executed a Master-level Holy Art!”

• • •

Shin-ju’s entire frame was glowing brightly with the Blessing trance as he barreled through the Kyrie Sphere he had created, smashing through the shield as if it were glass. He flew towards Garrione in break-neck speed, his fists clenched and teeth bared.

Instinctively, Garrione raised Sinjustice in front of him in defense. Shin-ju saw this and knew exactly what to do.

Garrione let loose a grunt as Shin-ju planted one foot on Sinjustice’s hilt, then swept his other foot into the Knight-Mage’s gauntlets. Disbelievingly, Garrione looked on as the flaming sword came flying out of his fingers, flying to the side and embedding its blade into one of the Clock Tower’s cobblestone steps with a loud clang. The flames on its black blade soon died down.

Landing on the ground, Shin-ju unleashed a ferocious barrage of punches and kicks at Garrione. The unarmed Knight-Mage moved steadily backwards in defense, desperately parrying the unstoppable tide of bare-handed attacks from the Nomad boy. It was only a matter of seconds before Shin-ju saw an opening, and he immediately threw a turning back kick that connected into Garrione’s throat.

As Garrione staggered backwards, clutching his neck, Shin-ju leaped backwards and slammed a flash kick under the Knight-Mage’s chin. A dazed Garrione still kept on his feet.

“EAT THIS!” Shin-ju yelled as he completed his reverse somersault. He immediately lunged at Garrione, drew his right arm back, and buried the long-overdue flying punch between the Knight-Mage’s eyes.

• • •

Jared whooped in elation as Shin-ju got the upper hand. While the Merchant celebrated, Mikieru shot an alarmed glance at the flames that roared outside his sphere shield. Even with Garrione and Sinjustice separated, the fire burned on.

Could it be? Mikieru thought. Sinjustice does not control these flames…

The Cleric looked up again, trying to spot Shin-ju through the tongues of flame that danced just beyond his palms.

I hope that does not mean Shin-ju will have to kill Garrione to save us… Mikieru worried.

• • •

As soon as a dazed Garrione got to his feet, the Knight-Mage suddenly felt a forearm clamp across his throat and another push his head forward. Then he felt a pair of legs wrap around his torso from behind. Feebly, Garrione clawed behind him as Shin-ju locked a tight chokehold and began to cut the Knight-Mage’s breathing.

• • •

“YEAH!” Jared yelled. “He got him! Awright, Shin-ju!”

• • •

Garrione thrashed around on his feet, trying to throw the Nomad boy off his back—but Shin-ju had locked the chokehold in so tightly that he was immovable. Desperately, Garrione tried to pry Shin-ju’s forearm from his throat.

“Break it, Garrione,” Shin-ju warned. “Break the Fire Walls now…”

Garrione choked, coughing. The Fire Walls around Mikieru, Jared and Napolde roared on.

“Break the Fire Walls, or I’ll break your neck!” Shin-ju yelled.

• • •

Mikieru gasped for air. Jared glanced at him in a worried shock. The Cleric was obviously reaching his limit.

• • •

“Never,” the Knight-Mage choked out.

“What?” Shin-ju yelled, stunned.

Suddenly Shin-ju felt white-hot heat rising towards his body. Looking down, he was horrified to see that Garrione’s body was catching fire—and setting fire to his own!

The Nomad boy screamed in pain, letting go of Garrione’s neck and instinctively jumping off the Knight-Mage’s back. Garrione’s fist flew backwards and caught Shin-ju in the side of the face, launching the boy several meters away from him.

• • •

“No!” Napolde managed to scream.

• • •

“Shin-ju!” Jared yelled, horrified by the turn of events.

Mikieru looked on in disbelief. Damnation, he thought.

• • •

Shin-ju quivered and painfully lifted his head off the pavement. With one eye swollen half-closed, he looked at Garrione.

The Knight-Mage was breathing heavily, a full malicious smile on his face. His eyes were murderously set on Shin-ju’s own. Flames enveloped his body and leaped upwards, silhouetting his huge dark form as he took the first step towards the Nomad boy.

The Occultists who were watching made sounds of awe as they watched their leader’s true powers emerge.

• • •

“Mike, what the hell’s going on?” Jared asked wildly. “What’s happening to Garrione?”

Mikieru cringed as Garrione, engulfed in a coat of fire, walk towards a fallen Shin-ju.

“Ars Magna,” the Cleric said, recognizing the Knight-Mage’s defensive spell. “It is a Sorcerer’s fire shield spell. It renders the spellcaster immune to fire, and at the same time manipulates the air around the body to form flames. It is a Master-level Arcane Art, and few Humans have the mental fortitude to control it…”

“But Garrione’s a Knight!” Jared yelled.

“Yes…” Mikieru answered. “As such he is supposedly forbidden from touching the Arcane Arts… but apparently he has managed to learn the Art of Fire… but from whom?”

The Cleric shook his head dismally as he tried to hold on to the Kyrie Eleison Sphere Shield for as long as he could. “This is not good,” he said, his eyes on Shin-ju as the boy struggled to get up. “Shin-ju does not have any ranged attacks or techniques. If he attacks Garrione head-on, it would be suicide.”

Jared turned to look at the battlegrounds one more time, despair on his face. “Shin-ju…” he muttered.

• • •

“How could a worthless Nomad child such as you… waste so much of my time and require so much of my power to STOP?” Garrione asked, raising a flaming hand in question. “Your idiot Master did not force me to use most of my techniques, despite him being the true enemy of me and my ideals.”

Shin-ju wobbled to his feet.

“You insult me,” Garrione declared.

Shin-ju looked up in time to see Garrione’s flaming fist fly towards his face. He ducked, evading the fist by inches, but Shin-ju couldn’t avoid Garrione’s other fist as it buried itself into his midsection.

“You insult justice!”

The Nomad boy grunted in pain.

“Those victims… will not have died in vain!” Garrione yelled, smashing an uppercut into Shin-ju’s bowed head.

Shin-ju flew backwards again, tumbling on the stone ground before lying limp.

Garrione’s furious expression slowly faded as he watched, one more time, Shin-ju quiver into motion and try to push himself off the ground.

The boy coughed, spitting up blood onto the cobblestones. He was in pain, and yet he persisted. In spite of himself and all he believed in, Garrione found the boy’s spirit moving.

• • •

“Why do you persist, Shin-ju Yang?” Garrione asked, his tone calmer than before. “I can think of only one reason… that you thirst for the same thing that I do. You seek justice for the wrong done unto you… during the Frontier War.”

Shin-ju froze when he heard this, his eyes still on the blood he had spit up.

“I am right, am I not?” Garrione continued. “You are a White Nomad, innocent and unknowing, falling unjustly to the treachery of your Black Nomad masters and Northfolk saviors.”

The Nomad boy slowly raised his head to look at Garrione.

“Do not be surprised,” the Knight-Mage went on. “I heard what you said to your Master before we battled. You said you had died in Sograt… and you believe it was your Master who had done it all.”

Shin-ju stared at Garrione for a moment, wide-eyed, before turning to look at the direction of Mikieru. The Cleric was looking in his direction as well—albeit with lowered eyes and a face turned slightly away.

Garrione sighed, looking at the flames that enveloped his body. So much fire, he thought. Just like those dark days…

“You know this as well as I do, Kitsune,” the Knight-Mage continued, closing his eyes. “What I speak of is known to both of us… and to this boy.”

• • •

The distant firelight reflected dimly in their eyes as the two Field Captains surveyed the scene that lay at the foot of the hill they were standing on.

“I don’t like this at all,” the larger one, who wore heavy Knight’s armor, whispered. “The Majors ought to know better than to rely on vague intelligence reports…”

His companion, who wore a long black coat over chain-mail armor, shook his head in agreement. “I do not like it any more than you do,” he whispered back. “But orders are orders.”

“This isn’t right, Mikieru,” the first one shot back. “We can’t go through with this!”

“We do not have a choice, Garrione,” Mikieru answered. “If the village is indeed an Assassin staging point as reported, tomorrow’s rescue push towards Antioc will be compromised to failure. You know this as well as I do.”

At that, Garrione had no answer. The Knight turned his eyes back to the campfires in the village below them. Desert nights were as cold as ice and as dark as pitch.

“The men are ready,” the Cleric said nonchalantly.

Garrione nodded. “Why do I have the feeling that we’re going to regret this,” he muttered as he prepared to give the signal to attack.

“We most probably will,” Mikieru said, raising his own hand. “I only pray that every death that happens here tonight will save two tomorrow.”

The two Field Captains waited until they could wait no longer, and their hands dropped in unison.

A pandemonium followed as two platoons of Knights stormed down the hillside, weapons and torches raised. The Nomads in the village were caught by surprise, but hastened nonetheless to arm themselves against the intruders. The Nomads fought hopelessly as they were hacked down one by one. Soon, huts were on fire.

Mikieru hated these midnight raids with a passion. Nomad Raiders, Rogues and Assassins shamefully assembled in desert military camps that, seen from afar, looked like friendly, harmless villages. After a few of Prontera’s platoons were massacred after camping near such villages, Mikieru’s superiors began ordering the remaining platoons to search and destroy all suspicious villages in their advance. While some of the raids had proven legitimate, others had not.

The Cleric pressed on the attack, until the burning huts illuminated the village enough to reveal something that he had not seen before.

A White Nomad woman was bawling, clutching her little daughter’s bloodied body to hers.

God, what have I done? Mikieru thought madly, throwing his arm into the air.

“Cease attack! CEASE ATTACK!” he yelled frantically. “Village is friendly! CEASE ATTACK!”

The Knights stopped in their tracks, horrified. The intelligence reports were faulty. Their Majors were wrong. The raid was illegitimate. And innocent White Nomads were dead.

Garrione cursed loudly before calling the Medics down from the hill. Then he started bellowing orders to his Knights, instructing them to help the wounded and douse the fires they had criminally caused.

Mikieru’s arms hung limp, the Redeemer falling from his fingers. The Cleric fell to his knees. He closed his eyes and lifted his head to the heavens, angrily admonishing himself and meekly asking for forgiveness that he knew he would never deserve.

“Damn it!” Garrione yelled loudly, flinging his Claymore into the darkness. “Damnation to our Majors! This is all their fault!”

Garrione took off his helmet, threw it to the ground, and kicked it into the air in fury.

“Kitsune! We are innocent of the blood of these Nomads!” Garrione shouted at a kneeling Kitsune across the camp.

Mikieru eyes were still closed, his face raised to the black sky.

“We are not the ones at fault, Kitsune! Stand with me!”

Mikieru did not move, even as White Nomads rushed out of their huts brandishing weapons that were actually farming implements.

“KIT—SU—NE!” Garrione screamed one last time.

Mikieru opened his eyes to the sound of an angry Nomad screaming. The man, who was apparently the dead child’s father, rushed towards the Cleric. There were tears in the man’s eyes, and his fingers were gripped tightly around the shaft of an axe that was used for chopping firewood.

At that moment, Mikieru knew that he wasn’t only going to regret this night—but his entire involvement in this War would forever scar his soul and remove any possibility of solace…

The dull, worn axe came down…

• • •

Mikieru said nothing as Garrione told their story.

“You do remember,” the Knight-Mage finished quietly, eyeing Mikieru. “Don’t you.”

Mikieru did not answer, prompting Garrione to turn back to Shin-ju. The boy was still on the ground, his hands and knees on the pavement. Shin-ju’s head was bowed, his strange blue hair hiding any expression on his face.

“Your Master will not give you any answers, Shin-ju Yang,” the Knight-Mage declared. “He will refuse to realize that it was not our fault all those years back… a coward in the highest extreme. He will not fight for you. He will not fight for your murdered kin. I, on the other hand, will.”

Mikieru looked up, angered by this audacious statement.

“We seek the same thing,” Garrione continued. “To kill you now would be pointless. I instead offer you a proposition.”

“Garrione!” Mikieru yelled furiously, fully knowing what Garrione was up to.

“Come with me,” the Knight-Mage offered, ignoring Mikieru’s screams. “Join me, Shin-ju Yang, and be my Apprentice. If you truly know what your heart yearns for, what this world begs for… join me.”

• • •

“You had a choice.”

Garrione frowned at Shin-ju’s answer. “Unh?”

“A choice was laid before you that night,” Shin-ju answered, slowly shuffling to his feet. “Both of you. Garrione, Senpai… you could have chosen not to raze that village. And you both made… the wrong choice.”

Garrione’s eyes narrowed at this. Behind him, Mikieru’s own eyes widened.

“But do you know the difference between you and Senpai, Garrione? He chose to take responsibility… while you pinned the blame on others. Ask me, I dare you, which consequence was the nobler.”

Garrione bared his teeth slightly.

“A person who refuses to take responsibility for his actions… that is a coward. That is what I hate the most.”

The Knight-Mage raised an eyebrow as he saw Shin-ju reach into his pocket and draw something out.

“Burn me, crush me, mutilate me if you must,” the boy warned as he slipped something around his right wrist. “But if you ever call Mikieru Makimachi a coward again…”

Shin-ju raised his right hand in the air, and dropped a cautioning finger at Garrione as he shot a fiery gray stare into the Knight-Mage’s eyes.

“…I’ll kill you.”

• • •

Jared’s eyes widened in amazement, and Mikieru gaped disbelievingly, as they saw what Shin-ju had taken out of his pocket and worn around his wrist.

It was the Acolyte’s Rosary.

“Shin-ju…” Mikieru managed to mutter, truly affected.

• • •

“Hmph,” Garrione snorted angrily, holding Shin-ju’s gaze. He raised a flaming gauntleted hand to one side—in the direction of Sinjustice—and incredibly, the large black sword quivered from the Clock Tower’s cobblestone steps. Sinjustice broke from the rocks with a loud crash and flew unerringly back to Garrione’s hand. Flames returned to its black blade as soon as the Knight-Mage’s fingers tightened around its hilt, and Garrione raised it in front of him, its fiery tip pointed towards Shin-ju’s battered, defiant form.

“I should have known it was a waste of time talking to fools such as you,” the Knight-Mage taunted, the flames around him leaping wildly in his fury. “It is because of you that these injustices exist in Midgard, and as the pillar of strength of its victims, I will destroy you. Your faith ends now…”

Garrione raised Sinjustice high up in the air. The flames around him erupted violently and loudly as he screamed:

“…AND YOUR PITIFUL EXISTENCE WITH IT!”

• • •

Undaunted by the pillar of flame that rose into the sky, Shin-ju closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was it. His last chance. His spiritual energy was on the brink of nothingness. If he failed to stop Garrione now, he, Mikieru, Jared, and Napolde… and soon after, countless others… would die.

He opened his eyes and set one foot in front of him. He assumed a passive defensive stance, his side to Garrione, and hung his arms at his sides. Then he opened both his hands.

Shin-ju knew that Garrione was about to use Sinjustice’s ultimate technique… and he was about to meet it with his own.

• • •

“Mike!” Jared gasped, pointing at Shin-ju. “Is that… Holy Light?”

Mikieru knotted his eyebrows in puzzlement, his eyes on two balls of white light that appeared under Shin-ju’s palms.

“No,” came Mikieru’s mystified answer. “The Holy Light spell draws directly from the caster’s spiritual energy, which is malevolent if not controlled properly. Holy Light’s nature is supposed to vigorously pulsate with power, but… those orbs under Shin-ju’s hands are almost like… pearls…”

Mikieru’s eyes widened when he said that last word, a stunning realization suddenly coming to him. He knew the Payonese word for “pearl.” It was…

• • •

…shinju…

• • •

End of Chapter Eleven

[zakky]

Chapter Twelve
A Greater Courage

Mikieru stared on from behind his weakening Kyrie Eleison Sphere Shield, stunned by his realization. For the first time, he entertained the notion that “Shin-ju” was in fact not Shin-ju’s real name—he had been thinking for a long time that the name sounded too Payonese for a Nomad. The knowledge that Shin-ju was hiding something compounded onto his apprehensions of the moment at hand, when Shin-ju and Garrione were about to unleash their most powerful techniques at each other.

Jared likewise watched the events that unfolded in front of them with bated breath. He gripped the Stone tightly within his fingers, knowing that this fiasco had gone for far too long—and everything that had been building up for the past month was about to come to a cataclysmic conclusion in only a matter of seconds.

• • •

Napolde squinted through the flames that snapped around her, her green eyes fixed intently on Shin-ju’s defiant form. Her strength was fading fast from lack of air, but she was determined to live long enough to see the outcome of this final clash—and whether or not this Nomad boy… this stranger… would indeed succeed in stopping the madman he was standing up against.

• • •

The Occultists watching the battle bared their teeth in anticipation, all their hopes pinned on their leader. None of them expected Garrione to take this long in putting Shin-ju away, yet no one doubted either that their victory was but only moments away.

• • •

Garrione’s dark form, engulfed in a towering pillar of flame, shrunk in Shin-ju’s cone of vision. As the boy channeled his special, subtle energy into the spheres below his hands, he carefully took notice of the flames that leaped beyond the Knight-Mage’s position, rising from the roofs of Al de Baran’s hovels.

The burning villages.

It was all Shin-ju needed to see to finally realize what he needed to do against this maddened Knight-Mage—and he had no doubt that Garrione felt the same as he did.

This will be over soon.

• • •

This will be over soon.

Garrione convinced himself that it would. The battle had worn far too long, but it was about to come to an end. His final technique was one that assured the target no known escape.

“I am glad to have fought you, Shin-ju Yang!” Garrione yelled as the energies channeled through Sinjustice reached their peaks. “You have convinced me beyond any doubt that I WILL NOT BE STOPPED!”

Suddenly the ground at Shin-ju’s feet shook violently, and the shocked boy struggled to keep his balance. He kept his gaze fixed upon Garrione even as the Knight-Mage invoked the catalyst for Sinjustice’s ultimate spell:

“NINE PILLARS OF FIRE!”

Instantly, nine leaping pillars of fire and molten rock blasted from the ground around Shin-ju. Then, almost as soon as they surfaced, the nine massive pillars converged downward and met at the boy’s position with a colossal explosion that rocked the entirety of the Al de Baran mountainside for several moments.

The explosions and ensuing tremors knocked Garrione backward. The Knight-Mage was too preoccupied on keeping his eye on the magnificent manifestation of the Nine Pillars that he almost did not notice a flash of bluish-white light that had whisked past him—before the first of the explosions came.

“What the--?” Garrione spat, suddenly realizing that the flash of light had moved beside him—and had taken the form of a lanky Nomad boy.

Amidst the shockwave of dust, smoke, and debris, Shin-ju had reappeared at Garrione’s weak side—and he was unharmed.

Mikieru, Jared, and Napolde saw that moment clearly—Shin-ju was alive, having somehow evaded the incredible fury of the Nine Pillars Of Fire. He was in a squatting stance, both feet on the ground, with one leg extended and the other bent, as though he was violently skidding to a halt. Both arms were extended behind him, and his palms were open—but only one of the “pearls” remained visible under his right hand.

“Impossible!” Garrione screamed, shuffling too late to defend himself.

Shin-ju clenched his right fist—and the “pearl” immediately engulfed his fist and forearm with a pulsating reddish-white light. The boy bared his teeth as he flung his entire right side forward, slamming his glowing fist on Sinjustice’s flat side and pinning the flaming sword against Garrione’s full-plate armor.

• • •

Shin-ju had always been mystified and angered by his strange gift, even as a child. No one could explain to him what it was—not even the Priestess caretaker of the orphanage where he stayed—and yet evil people were after it—or him, he never found out which. Despite the nagging thought that it might have caused him the single greatest tragedy in his life, survival in the wilderness forced him to develop and use it.

At first, Shin-ju thought the orbs of energy that he could channel through his hands were useless, until he realized that matter seemed to be repelled by their emanations. Further investigation during his desert wanderings enabled him to discover some hidden abilities associated with the strange balls of mana—one of which was to “inhale” the energy to drastically increase his speed for a split-second (and give the impression of disappearing from his original position and reappearing at a different spot up to sixty meters away), and another one of which was to violently release its compressed energies in a bare-handed attack capable of denting even the hardest desert rock.

• • •

Shin-ju smiled madly at the moment of his fist’s impact, realizing that he had never come up with a name for this attack. Seeing the look of immeasurable shock on Garrione’s face, and knowing that the same look was reflected on the faces of all other Occultists watching his move’s execution, Shin-ju yelled as he reached the achievement of his ultimate technique:

“THIS IS OCCULT IMPACT!”

The Knight-Mage roared as Shin-ju’s punch produced a force much greater than was humanly possible, shattering Sinjustice’s black blade and Garrione’s plate mail armor into shards. Garrione flew backwards in astounding speed, bits and pieces of metal trailing his uncontrollable flight as he hurtled towards the Clock Tower.

Garrione’s huge frame crashed through the Clock Tower’s solid oak doors and—to the disbelief of the onlookers—barreled through its central stone supports. Everyone in Al de Baran’s Clock Tower square watched incredulously as the ancient Clock Tower tipped and crumbled down, accompanied by loud crushing sounds and violent tremors that rivaled those that came with the Nine Pillars Of Fire. Rocks, bricks, and masonry fell on top of Garrione—and the clock bell gave a loud, final toll as the room containing the clock mechanism fell on top of the smoldering mound of stone.

• • •

The Fire Wall that surrounded Mikieru and Jared finally died down into nothingness, and the Cleric released his hold on the Kyrie Eleison Sphere Shield. His eyes closed, he tipped forward and almost lost consciousness—but caught himself midway to the ground and managed to break his fall with his knee and hands. Jared did what he could to keep the Cleric’s head from hitting the pavement.

Together, the two friends caught their breaths. Mikieru shook his head as his eyes moved from the mound of crushed stone and masonry that used to be Al de Baran’s Clock Tower, to the pieces of twisted metal strewn on the battlegrounds, and finally to the form of his Apprentice, Shin-ju Yang—who, even as he had expended the last bit of his energy, still stubbornly remained on two feet.

• • •

Shin-ju breathed heavily, his body still in the follow-through of the phenomenal punch he had just delivered. He coughed, and his face contorted in a mighty effort to keep his eyes open. Pins and needles pricked his entire right side into numbness, and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before his body would succumb to its natural responses. He glanced behind him, and as soon as he realized that the Fire Walls had been broken, his knees gave way and his body pitched forward.

He did not feel his face hit the hard, dusty pavement. Instead, he felt his cheek fall onto something soft… and had the soothing, natural scent of pine that he liked very much. Two hands held him under his arms, breaking his fall with an embrace.

Napolde had caught him. The Elf held the boy’s head to her chest as she slowly went down to her knees.

Shin-ju opened his eyes and mustered the strength to look up into Napolde’s face. She was beautiful. The ethereal combination of her yellow hair, green eyes, and pointed ears gave Shin-ju a strange, foreign comfort.

“Thank you,” she whispered, tears in her eyes, “valiant one.”

• • •

A pair of gloved hands reached under Shin-ju’s half-conscious body, taking his weight off of Napolde’s arms. The Elf looked up into the green-and-blue stare of Mikieru, who smiled and nodded in greeting.

“I will take him, my Lady,” Mikieru said quietly. “Jared is waiting for you.”

Napolde’s green eyes widened at the sound of Jared’s name. Slowly, holding her breath, she turned her head to look to her side. Surely enough, there he was—Jared Wycrow, the Merchant, the chosen Keeper of the Stone—and he was walking towards her with a look of the greatest relief on his face.

The Elf broke into tears as she got to her feet and ran towards him—and they locked in the embrace that they have been longing for since they were separated for what seemed to be ages ago for the two of them.

• • •

“I love you,” Jared choked between sobs. “Oh God, I love you…”

• • •

Mikieru watched the couple with quiet satisfaction, knowing that their mission was a success, albeit unfinished. When he looked down at Shin-ju, he saw that the boy’s eyes were opened slightly, watching the reunion with curiosity and fulfillment.

“You did it,” Mikieru said.

Shin-ju swallowed, turning his eyes to the Cleric’s. “No,” he whispered. “We did it, Master.”

Mikieru stopped for a moment. Shin-ju had called him Master.

The Cleric remembered this same scene a few months before. Shin-ju had just rescued a girl from Prontera’s West Water Channel and was recuperating outside the hospital’s emergency entrance. Back then, the boy also had his head laid down on Mikieru’s lap—and that was when Mikieru had offered Shin-ju the Acolyte’s Rosary.

“Do you really think I’m capable of all that?” Shin-ju had asked.

The Cleric smiled. “So you are finally up to the challenge, Shin-ju?”

Shin-ju smiled back, raising his right hand and making a fist. “Bring it on,” he assented, his eyes moving to the Rosary on his wrist.

• • •

With Napolde held securely within his arms, Jared opened his teary eyes—and froze as he saw the ruins of the Clock Tower. He saw black smoke rising from gaps in the rubble, smoke that soon gave way to obvious orange flames.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

Mikieru looked up at those ominous words. Shattered stone and masonry began to fall off the ruined mound that used to be the Clock Tower.

“He’s… still alive?” Shin-ju asked, feebly making the attempt to roll over and stand up.

“Impossible,” Mikieru stated, shaking his head as the vibrations coming from within the ruins became stronger. “No one could have survived that…”

Napolde turned around to see what her three rescuers were staring at. She eyed the Clock Tower ruins fearfully as more flames sprouted from the cracks.

The rumblings increased in intensity, causing a low, steady crushing sound, until everyone beheld the frightening sight of a flaming arm clawing its way out of the rubble!

• • •

Jared held Napolde tightly as he instinctively stepped backwards. Shin-ju lay on his stomach, trying to push himself to his feet with his arms. Mikieru stayed down on one knee, exhausted from being forced to maintain his Sphere Shield for much longer than a few moments. All four of them watched in horror, as Garrione emerged from the rubble, alive—but changed.

The Knight-Mage’s irises were invisible. His eyes were empty white balls. His teeth were bared, and his hair was in shambles. His armor was falling off—melting from under the heat that emanated from his body—and flames leaped from his frame to heights much higher than when he invoked the Ars Magna spell. Garrione set his empty eyes onto the four friends, arched his back, and let loose a scream of rage that sounded like a gigantic, fully-fed blast furnace.

• • •

“Tch,” Mikieru spat helplessly, his eyes fixed on his old friend. He knew that this was particularly why study of the Arcane Arts were restricted to those willing to dedicate decades of theory and practice to it… and no one else. Garrione managed to learn all the spells and all the invocations, but he did not have the mental fortitude that could only have come from decades of grappling with the volatile Art. Ars Magna had consumed Garrione. The Knight-Mage was no longer Human—the Fire Shield spell had slipped his control and degenerated the once-great warrior into a mindless Fire Elemental.

The Cleric pushed himself to his feet. He knew that he had too little spiritual energy left. He would not be able to enter the Blessing Trance to take the monster down, and he would not be able to create another Kyrie Eleison Sphere Shield strong enough to deflect the attacks of magical fire that would surely come their way. But he had to try…

• • •

Napolde watched reluctantly as Garrione ambled closer, swinging a massive arm to decimate a still-standing stone column that stood in his way. Jared gripped her tightly, trying to pull her away from the scene. But she resisted, knowing that there was something she could do.

As she sensed the Knight-Mage gather flames into a huge fireball over his head, she immediately pushed Jared away and took a few steps toward Garrione.

“Napolde!” Jared yelled, running after her.

A flash of red-hot heat blasted from Garrione’s fireball, and the Merchant was knocked backward—but Napolde stayed on her feet, her hands clasped together in front of her chest.

• • •

Shin-ju and Mikieru looked on, stunned, as Napolde faced Garrione.

What is she doing? Mikieru asked himself.

• • •

Napolde’s lips moved in the utterance of a long-forgotten Elven incantation.

As one of the few remaining Elven Druids in Midgard, she had sworn an oath to the Goldraiders never to manifest her powers in the presence of Humans for fear of retaliation—the rumors that caused the downfall of the ancient Alchemist guild still prevailed over much of the continent. She was to keep her powers hidden to prevent the misguided anger and hatred from arising again, compromising her mission and the Goldraiders’ sworn duties.

But Napolde knew that this was necessary. The Stone and its Keeper was in danger—it was a risk she had to take.

• • •

Garrione let loose another blast-furnace bellow as he took a step forward and, with both hands, flung the massive ball of fire towards the four friends.

Mikieru’s eyes widened as he saw the size of the fireball barreling directly towards them. There was no escaping this!

• • •

As the fireball approached Napolde, the Elf finished her incantations and yelled the name of her power—a name the Human tongue could not pronounce—and her three friends moved backwards in shock as a gigantic column of rock smashed upwards through the pavement in front of them.

The fireball slammed into the summoned rock face, instantly decimating it into pieces—but it was enough to channel the flames harmlessly over and around them.

Napolde did not waver even as a rain of rocks and dirt fell around them. She fixed her gaze at the monster approaching her, her hands still clasped at her chest as she uttered another incantation.

Jared, Mikieru, and Shin-ju stared on in disbelief as Garrione stopped in his tracks. Vines and roots had suddenly sprung up through the pavement and began wrapping themselves around the Fire Elemental’s limbs. The monster roared in fury, writhing to free itself from the living prison.

Napolde cringed, beads of sweat beginning to form on her temple. Garrione’s flames were burning through her cage of plants. She could not hold him for long—Mikieru took one look at her face and knew that this was the limit of her powers.

• • •

To have the fabled powers of the Elven Druids manifest themselves before my eyes… this is truly a remarkable Elf, Mikieru thought, getting up on two feet. This only means one thing… we are in a situation that would force her to reveal the powers she swore to hide.

Mikieru walked towards the Elf’s side, his gloved hand reaching up to the silver cross around his neck.

Then it also means I should do no less, Mikieru said, opening a tiny latch on the cross.

• • •

Shin-ju could not see what Mikieru was doing. The Cleric had his back turned to him. However, the boy could discern him taking something from around his neck and pressing it to his lips. Then he saw the Cleric stop walking when he reached Napolde’s side.

• • •

Mikieru stared at Garrione dismally, truly hurt by seeing his old friend degenerate into something like this.

You wanted too much power, Mikieru thought, slowly feeling strength and vigor returning to his body. And you received that which even you could not control. This is the price of that power… were you aware of the cost, Garrione? Did you know it would eventually come to this, even without my intervention?

Garrione’s arm snapped free from Napolde’s vines.

I am sorry to be the one to end this, old friend, Mikieru thought. We both know this is the only conclusion to this madness. I only pray that you will find in death the peace you failed to find in life.

• • •

Shin-ju and Jared stared on, watching a brilliant white aura envelope Mikieru’s tall frame. Neither of them had ever seen the Cleric’s ultimate skill before—and both watched with their breaths stuck in their throats.

• • •

Garrione broke free from Napolde’s living cage and lunged towards the four friends with a roar. The Elf fell backwards, exhausted from the exertion. Jared reached out and caught her before she fell to the pavement. Together, he, she, and Shin-ju watched as Mikieru prepared to meet the approaching monster.

• • •

The Cleric placed one foot in front of him and bent forward, flinging his arms behind him. In the brilliance of his white aura he summoned two large pulsating orbs of light in his hands. Then he opened his mouth and gave the name of his ultimate technique.

“MAGNUS… LUMINA SANCTUS…”

His voice reverberated through the Clock Tower square.

“BOLT OF THE HEAVENS!”

His three friends watched in awe as he flung his arms forward repeatedly, flinging orb after orb after powerful orb of antimatter towards Garrione. The balls of energy did not only slam into the monster’s frame—they tore straight through—fully delivering the intended damage to what remained of the Knight-Mage’s life force. Bright flashes of light accompanied Mikieru’s final execution as he flung a seemingly endless number of orbs at the Knight-Mage.

Garrione released a prolonged roar as the last of the Bolts tore through his body. The roar echoed around the Al de Baran hillside long after Mikieru completed his ultimate technique and the flames around the Knight-Mage’s body died down.

Then, in a moment of humanity, Garrione lowered his eyes to Mikieru’s. His irises were visible again, and they gave the Cleric a final, meaningful glance.

“Save… me…” a whisper escaped his lips.

The Knight-Mage’s eyes closed and he pitched forward, falling on his face. Garrione, once-great Knight of Prontera, would never get up again.

• • •

Silence prevailed over the Clock Tower square. There was nothing to be heard save for the snapping of the flames that dotted the ruined cobblestone pavement and the low howl of the mountain winds. Garrione, the leader of the Old Occultists, was dead—and his ambitions with him.

“It’s… over…” Jared whispered.

Napolde rested her head on the Merchant’s chest, her eyes still fixed on the Knight-Mage’s dead body. Shin-ju was up on one knee, watching every move that Mikieru made. The Cleric’s white aura disappeared soon after Garrione passed on, and he spent a few moments staring at his fallen friend.

Then, to Shin-ju’s puzzlement, Mikieru walked over to Garrione’s body and knelt beside his face. The Cleric reached into his coat’s inside pocket and drew out a vial of Holy Water, wetting his thumb with it. Uttering a quiet prayer, Mikieru dabbed a cross on his dead comrade’s forehead.

Shin-ju shook his head at Mikieru’s action. Garrione, who had killed so many in his blind quest for vengeance, was receiving Last Rites from a sworn enemy. He did not understand.

Mikieru sensed Shin-ju’s unease. “I am a Priest before anything else, Shin-ju,” he said silently, answering the boy’s unasked question. “I do not refuse to administer God’s gifts to those who humbly ask.”

Shin-ju stared on, his lips open in disquiet, as Mikieru continued his prayers.

“Even after all he’s done?” the boy whispered.

“Especially after all he has done,” the Cleric answered calmly. “Anyone can have the courage needed to face one’s enemies, Shin-ju. But do you have the courage to forgive them?”

Shin-ju stared into space.

Then he set his eyes down to the pavement, troubled to a good extent.

I… do not… have that courage… he thought, closing his eyes. I cannot forgive…

The boy opened his eyes when he felt Mikieru’s heavy gloved hand on his shoulder.

“No one is born with this courage, Shin-ju,” Mikieru whispered, looking down on the boy’s bowed head. “It is learned. But you will only learn it if you truly wish to. That is the challenge of the Brave Life… That is your challenge.”

With a comforting squeeze, Mikieru walked past the boy, leaving him to his thoughts.

• • •

Jared and Napolde wordlessly turned around as Mikieru passed them by. The stalwart Cleric was walking towards the middle of the ruined square, where he would face his next trial—confronting the angry horde of Occultists, all of whom bore witness to the demise of their ultimate leader.

Mikieru stopped when he reached the spot he was walking towards. His green-and-blue eyes scanned the mob of bandana-bearing men and women that barred all hopes of escape from the Clock Tower square. With the calmness that he was known for, Mikieru raised a gloved hand and raised his index and middle fingers together. He was offering a sign of peace—the battle was over.

It took only one Occultist, who angrily drew his sword at the Cleric’s gesture, to set a tide of unsheathing weapons around the Clock Tower square. Soon all of the Occultists were armed—and all had their sights set on the four friends.

• • •

Shin-ju looked behind him, seeing the Occultists brandish their weapons in rejection of Mikieru’s peace offering. The sound of blades scraping against their sheaths made the boy remember the Cleric’s last words to him.

No one is born with this courage. It is learned. But you will only learn it if you truly wish to. That is the challenge of the Brave Life. That is your challenge.

The boy’s gray eyes scanned the dark mob of armed Occultists.

If I don’t learn this courage, I won’t be any better than these Occultists, Shin-ju thought, shuffling painfully to his feet. If I don’t learn to forgive… I won’t be any better than Garrione.

• • •

Still offering his gesture of peace, Mikieru turned his head to a shuffling sound at his side. Shin-ju was staggering, his left arm painfully favoring his right torso. Mikieru could see that he was in pain, but he also saw that the boy’s right hand was clenched into a fist.

Shin-ju moved his eyes in the direction of Mikieru as he reached the Cleric’s side, but he did not look up into his eyes. He merely took one moment glancing in the Cleric’s direction before turning back at the Occultist mob and nodding, indicating that he was ready.

Mikieru returned the dismal nod, and faced the Occultists again.

• • •

Napolde straightened, placing her hand on Jared’s chest. She looked at Mikieru and Shin-ju… then she looked up at the stunned Merchant.

Jared understood immediately. She wanted to help them.

The Merchant slowly nodded in submission, reluctantly releasing his hold on the Elf’s shoulders. Napolde then gave him a long, grateful smile, before turning around and walking to Mikieru’s opposite side.

• • •

Mikieru, Shin-ju and Napolde waited together, preparing for the worst, as the Occultist mob took their first steps towards them.

• • •

End of Chapter Twelve

[zakky]

Chapter Twelve, Thirteen, and Fourteen coming up

[zakky]

Chapter Thirteen
The Stone’s Horrible Secret

A maintained, high-pitched ring was all Shin-ju could hear while he, Mikieru, and Napolde stood their ground against the approaching Occultists. Severe exhaustion made him dizzy, and his throat was painfully dry and sticky. His body screamed at him to lie down and rest, but he bit back the impulse to give up. There was no rest to be had until he and his friends were safe.

Through half-closed eyes, he saw the Occultists approach them from all directions. At first, they took slow, cautious steps. Shin-ju’s eyelids drooped for a moment, engulfing the boy in a tempting blackness, but he immediately opened them again—to the sight of charging Occultists. He painfully shifted into a fighting stance, only to have his fatigued eyes close again—he wobbled on his heels as he forced them open one more time.

This time, he saw that the Occultists had stopped charging. Instead, they were cautiously standing their ground, eyes of the multitude alternately moving to the hillsides around them and the arrows that were embedded in the ground in front of them.

Arrows? Shin-ju thought, glancing at Mikieru. The Cleric was looking around the Clock Tower square, a hint of a smile on his face.

Shin-ju could not hear a thing, but he knew Napolde and Jared were showing signs and gestures of relief. It wasn’t until the boy looked around him that he realized the reason for their reprieve.

On the hillsides that crept over the walls bounding three sides of the Clock Tower square, several Payon Knights stood with arrows pulled into their longbows, each in deadly aim at an Occultist. Other Payon Knights, fully-armored and Katanas in hand, were descending the slopes and running to rally around the four friends. Powerful falcons were circling the air over the Occultists, ready to dive in and rake their razor-sharp talons through the mob at the mere signal of their masters.

Shin-ju did a quick head-count and realized there were almost one hundred Payon Knights scattered on three sides of the Clock Tower square.

Mr. Akira, the boy realized, exhaling heartily. They made it!

• • •

Akira nodded in satisfaction, knowing that their gamble had paid off. He knew that Al de Baran would be impenetrable from the front, so he and his officers planned to break formation before reaching the Machine City’s foothills and approach it from behind. They had successfully scaled the treacherous rock hills on the Clock Tower’s three sides and now had the advantage of higher ground over the Occultists.

The Shousa stood on a rock on the square’s rear hillside, giving himself a commanding view of the battlefield. His valiant officers stood beside him, ready to deliver any of his orders to the frontlines. His swordsmen stood in a staggered line behind the four friends below him, and his archers were perched perfectly on the crests of their hills. The medical team stood at the ready, Yoriko among them.

Below, Mikieru spotted Akira’s tall armored frame. From the distance, he gave the Shousa a nod of gratitude.

Akira nodded the nod, but he immediately set his eyes back on the battlefield. Despite their skill and terrain advantage, they were still outnumbered thirty-to-one by the Occultists and traitorous Payon Knights. This was going to be a difficult battle.

“<Stand fast,>” Akira told his officers in firm Payonese. “<The Cleric will give his ultimatum, and we will fight if the Occultists refuse.>”

• • •

“Garrione is dead,” Mikieru shouted at the Occultists. “His misguided revolution is over. I offer you peace. Enough blood has been shed on his behalf. This must end. I ask you all, very respectfully, to lay down your weapons and stand down.”

Shin-ju, Jared, and Napolde waited for the Occultists to give their response.

Seven burly Occultists, who used to be Garrione’s bodyguards, defiantly raised their weapons in answer. “Justice!” they yelled. “Justice!”

“Justice!” the other Occultists yelled in chorus, spurred by their superiors’ audacity. “Justice!”

Jared shook his head at the Occultists’ refusal. “I am so starting to hate that word,” the Merchant muttered.

At that moment, all the soldiers on both sides raised their weapons and prepared for the unavoidable battle.

• • •

Napolde’s gaze shot skyward.

Mikieru, being familiar with the subtle sensation that came with the movement of elemental mana, noticed it as well. He and the Elf had felt an out-of-place shift in the mana around the Clock Tower square. Cautiously the Cleric took steps back towards his friends, all the while scanning the plaza for the cause of the shift.

The calm in his face contrasted sharply with the look of deep fear that came over Napolde’s visage as the shift came again, this time with enough strength to cause a change in the winds as well. The mana movement was strong enough for Mikieru to ascertain its cause—it was the telltale mana compressions that came with the opening of a Warp Portal.

Mikieru’s mouth tightened as he waited for the third mana shift—it would allow him to pinpoint the exact location of the portal. When it came, a miniature vortex of wind spiralled down from the atmosphere and centered into the middle of the Clock Tower square—directly between the Occultists and Akira’s platoon. It was enough to stop the startled Occultists in their tracks.

Mystified, Akira watched as the strange interruption unfolded in the plaza below him. His officers glanced at him cautiously, intently waiting for any orders to be issued by the Shousa.

• • •

“Napolde?” Jared asked, noticing the Elf’s fearful countenance. “What’s wrong?”

Napolde’s lips were quivering as she muttered her response. “Someone is… coming.”

“Someone? Who?”

“Someone… like you…”

Stupefied, Jared listened as Napolde continued:

“It is another Keeper. I feel his presence… and the presence of the one he keeps…”

• • •

Mikieru squinted as the gathering malevolent energies converged in the middle of the Clock Tower square. Bolts of crackling energy began to shoot from the vortex’s core, intensifying steadily until a black void began to open around it.

Shin-ju couldn’t believe his eyes. It was almost as if the very fabric of reality had been peeled back to reveal a dark hole, where time and space had no hold over physical existence. He apprehensively watched as a man, clothed in a long black Payonese robe and a large sakkat, stepped out of the void and onto the cobblestones of the Clock Tower square.

All eyes were fixed on the strange newcomer, even as the Warp Portal began to close and the winds began to die down. When silence finally prevailed over the square, the man’s wrinkled hands reached up to remove the sakkat from his eyes.

Jared shook his head dismally. All this time, he did not want to think that the Taishou had betrayed them to Garrione and the Occultists. He knew his worst fears had come true when the man lowered the sakkat and revealed his face to everyone in the plaza.

Many of the Occultists grinned in recognition of the man. They knew that this man was instrumental in setting Garrione’s plan into motion, and now they were sure he would succeed where the Knight-Mage had failed.

The Taishou’s face had an utter lack of expression as he scanned the three thousand that stood at his right side and on the one hundred that stood on his left. When his eyes fell upon Garrione’s fallen body behind Mikieru and his friends, however, a noticeable frown came over his countenance.

“Garrione,” the old warrior intoned. “I had feared my plan was doomed from the start…”

The Taishou then rose to Mikieru’s face. The Cleric’s tall stature and commanding position in front of his friends immediately told him that if he had any business with Jared Wycrow, he would have to speak to this Priest first.

“I am here for Wycrow’s Stone,” the Taishou said quietly.

Before Mikieru could answer, Jared’s voice shot forward.

“Straight to the point, huh?” the Merchant yelled angrily. “Don’t waste your breath, Taishou. We know what you want and you won’t be getting it. We’ve already gone through so much to protect it.”

The Taishou listened to Jared’s outburst, then shook his head.

“Do you even realize why you protect it?” the warrior asked.

Jared’s expression changed from that of anger into one of surprise. Grimly, he looked down and patted his jacket where the Stone was hidden. As convinced as he was of the Stone’s importance, somehow he could not put the reason behind his conviction into words…

“Explain yourself, Taishou,” Mikieru interjected for the Merchant.

The Taishou raised a disinterested glance at the Cleric. “You wish the exposition, Priest?” the warrior replied. “Very well. I suppose you deserve as much, that you have sacrificed so much to go this far to protect your precious treasure.

“As you might know, I am in possession of a Stone quite similar to Wycrow’s. You have heard the legends, yes? These Stones were the charge of the ancient Alchemist guild, the Goldraiders. These Stones supposedly held the powers of the fabled ‘Philosopher’s Stone,’ blessed with the capacity of turning ordinary lead into gold.

“Do not think I seek the Stone for that reason, Priest. I am beyond the primal desire for wealth. I instead seek the Stone’s true powers.”

“True powers,” Mikieru repeated.

“Yes,” the Taishou replied, closing his eyes as though he was very tired. “I have studied extensively the activities of the Goldraiders and their Elven Druid friends—from the moment of their founding eight hundred years ago, through the sensational mad rush that accompanied rumors of the Stone’s finding, up until the disrepute that caused their disbanding decades ago. All the chronicles and all the writings and all the rumors had led me to one conclusion…

“…that there was, in fact, more than one of these Stones in existence.”

Napolde huddled close to Jared when she heard this. Never had she felt more afraid than now—people outside of the Goldraiders and Elven Druid Rites knew of the Stones!

“You have a Stone, as well?” Mikieru ventured.

The Taishou nodded, his eyes still closed. “Payon’s Shogun Family, the Yamagachis, first arrived in Midgard from our mother continent Khan 250 years ago. With them, they brought a strange three-faced Stone that had been in their family’s possession for over a millennium. Found in the mountains by an ancestor, it was found to be utterly indestructible, whether by force or fire. It did not seem to serve a purpose, but the Yamagachis deemed that it should be kept until its use could be determined.

“After all those centuries of neglect, the task of keeping it has fallen to me, the Taishou.

“I studied the Stone, as well. That was how I drew my conclusions between the Goldraiders’ quest for the Philosopher’s Stone and this one Stone. I was convinced that another Stone existed besides the one in my possession, and I was secretly determined to find them all before I died. I am growing old and feeble, as you can see, so you can only imagine my excitement when word of Wycrow’s Stone reached my ear mere weeks ago.

“Being based in Payon, I was powerless to verify whether the rumors were true. That was when I consorted with the fallen Knight Garrione… he and his Old Occultists were based in Al de Baran and would have been perfect for the task of recovering the Stone for me—or at least, I was convinced of such at first.”

“You consorted… with such as he and these?” Mikieru asked, astonished. “You, the second-most honored person in Payon, consorted with a fallen Knight and his band of mercenaries?”

The Taishou was quiet for a moment. “Hope drives man to the limits of his capabilities, yes?”

Mikieru’s visage tightened as the Taishou opened his eyes.

“Old age will make you realize that despair does the exact same, Priest… oftentimes, to extents much further than hope can muster.”

Jared held Napolde close, his eyes still defiantly fixed on the Taishou as the old warrior resumed his rationalizations.

“Garrione sought a war of vengeance against Prontera for the Kingdom’s war crimes during the Frontier War. He had the zeal, but he lacked the manpower. At most he mustered only a few hundred mercenaries and hooligans, and as such, he was not considered a threat by the Kingdom. Tristan and his Advisers downplayed the Occultists’ activities for the past two years… Garrione and I both knew that if there ever were a time for the Knight-Mage to exact his revenge, it would be now, when the Kingdom was weak and unprepared.

“We agreed on a deal… I was to provide him with enough manpower and weaponry to overrun Al de Baran and turn it into his stronghold. If he succeeded, he would have stood a good chance into getting the revenge he sought from the Kingdom…”

The Taishou sighed. “I tire of this conversation, knowing that our grand scheme has not fallen into place…”

“I have one more question,” Mikieru ventured. “Am I to understand that it was you who forged Garrione’s magical sword and gave it to him?”

The great warrior sniffed audibly at this question, but did not answer right away.

“Payonese swordsmithing may be considered Midgard’s best, but Sinjustice was not Oriental in nature. It was immense, two-edged, and black. Almost… Old Nordic… in appearance.”

The Taishou smiled slightly at the Cleric’s elucidation. “I am beginning to see how you were able to defeat Garrione, Priest,” he drawled. “I am certain that if Garrione had half your intelligence, he would have beaten you soundly, but he had never shown me that sort of wit in our dealings.

“Not I, Priest. It was not I who gave him the sword. Who it was does not concern you.”

Shin-ju was stunned when he heard this. No way… he thought. There’s another one?

“But you admit that there is another… besides you and Garrione… privy to this scheme. I will know his name, please.”

“I cannot tell you…”

“Tell me, Taishou. Now.”

“As I said, Priest, I cannot tell you… the one’s name cannot be pronounced by the Human tongue.”

The Cleric’s eyes widened. “What?” he whispered in shock.

“Too much I have said in this exchange,” the Taishou drawled loudly, a hint of anger in his voice. “Now is the time to make the choice. I desire Wycrow’s Stone, Priest. Give it to me, and I will take my leave of you forever.”

“Forget it,” Jared yelled. “Take your three thousand and try to take it. I won’t hand it over.”

“We will not surrender it, Taishou,” Mikieru finished. “We will fight against you and your forces to protect it.”

The Taishou was unimpressed. “My three thousand?” he asked.

Mikieru and his friends wondered what the Taishou meant.

“Do not think that I am here to muster these fools to victory over you and yours, Priest. They are worth no more than a gnat’s spit.”

This statement was enough to wipe the smug grins off the Occultists’ faces.

“I came here with the intention of taking the Stone, and nothing else. What you plan to do with this army of misguided beasts is of no concern to me.”

What is this? Mikieru thought, bewildered by the Taishou’s actions. He is alone in demanding for the Stone… and now he provokes the Occultists into rage?

Shin-ju looked around in puzzlement. Already, many Occultists had their weapons raised menacingly—and looked as though they were to charge towards the Taishou instead.

The Taishou turned his eyes to the side, as if noticing the anger rising in the Occultist mob behind him. “Must I be stopped at every turn?” the warrior muttered, reaching into the folds of his coat. “I must admit I had wanted the opportunity to see if all my conclusions were correct, but I do wish it did not have to come to this.”

The Taishou drew out a smooth, three-faced purple stone.

“Power over death…” the Taishou whispered.

• • •

Immediately, Mikieru felt overwhelming waves of Undead energies emanating from the Taishou. The Cleric instantly leaped backwards, high up in the air, and landed in front of his friends.

This aura… an alarmed Mikieru thought. It is terrible!

“What’s going on, Mike?” Jared asked loudly.

“Prepare yourselves!” the Cleric shouted. “I do not know what the Taishou is doing, but I sense a deluge of evil coming our way!”

• • •

The Taishou began mumbling an incantation in a heavily accented language that had been long forgotten from the face of Midgard. The warrior did not stop in his incantations even as many of the Occultists lunged towards him from behind, weapons drawn.

At the last instant, rows of runes flashed to life on the faces of the Taishou’s Stone—and a mad smile of satisfaction came to the warrior’s face.

• • •

Screams of terror echoed over the Clock Tower square in the moments that followed—a sudden, total darkness and a deathly chill had enveloped Al de Baran and the surrounding mountainsides. Mikieru and his friends looked around with eyes wide open, but they could not see anything!

• • •

For a stunned moment, Akira wondered whether he had gone blind. He realized it wasn’t the case when he looked towards the horizon from his perch atop the hill ridge. He could see a thin band of sunlight surrounding the horizon on all sides, but something seemed to extinguish all light for dozens of miles around the Clock Tower square.

The cold, dark emptiness that came before the light? Akira thought, shocked. The legend of the One Who Waits… no, it cannot be true!

• • •

This is unreal! Mikieru thought madly. Total darkness in an instant… what is this we face?

Behind him, Shin-ju was disoriented by the darkness. Jared looked around, clutching a fearful Napolde close to him. None of them knew what was going on.

In front of him, Mikieru heard what he thought were sounds of bladed weapons cleaving flesh. The slashes were accompanied with deathcries—apparently from the Occultists—but Mikieru could not see what was happening.

The Cleric immediately closed his eyes and clasped his hands in front of his chest. Channeling his mana to his eyes, he opened them after uttering a short Latin incantation and whispered:

“RUWACH!”

Shin-ju was down on one knee when he heard Mikieru’s utterance. With eyes staring straight ahead, he turned his head towards the sound of the Cleric’s voice. “Is that you, Senpai?” he asked.

• • •

Meanwhile, Mikieru’s field of vision was slowly coming to light. Tch, the Cleric thought, noticing that his surroundings were not being revealed to him quickly enough. Even my Ruwach cannot dispel this darkness in speed… but I only need to see the face of the Taishou…

After what seemed to be several moments for the Cleric, his enhanced vision spell began to reveal the square’s cobblestone pavement.

Then the bloodied, mutilated bodies of Occultists came into view, surrounding what seemed to be a very large hooded figure wearing a tattered cloak.

A Wraith? Mikieru asked himself, recognizing the form of a certain powerful Undead monster he had once read about. No, it seems much… too large…

Ruwach seemed to weaken the more Mikieru trained his eyes on the creature. His field of vision darkened slightly before revealing the hooded figure again—only this time, it seemed to have turned slightly towards Mikieru’s direction.

Ruwach weakened again, and the Cleric strained to see the creature one more time.

• • •

A horrific skull-face flashed before Mikieru’s eyes, with bloodshot eyes fixed murderously on his own!

• • •

Mikieru gasped and stepped backward, almost losing his balance.

“Senpai?” Shin-ju called, reaching out for Mikieru.

The Cleric was breathing heavily as he looked up again, his Ruwach spell still in effect. The creature was still a good distance away—it had not approached Mikieru at all, yet the skull-face that greeted Mikieru seemed to have flashed right before the stunned Cleric.

Such power, Mikieru swallowed, realizing that his natural Priestly immunity to Undead energies was staggered by the creature’s sheer power. This is no ordinary Undead!

“I cannot match this,” Mikieru whispered, closing his painful eyes for a moment.

• • •

Midgard.

Mikieru eyes shot open.

Much has changed.

The Cleric looked around madly. Someone was speaking to him, but the voice seemed to ring in his head… and it spoke to him in Latin.

Humans have lived outside my threads for one hundred centuries.

Mikieru stopped, then looked straight ahead—the creature seemed to be looking straight into his eyes.

I will not allow this to persist. Order will be restored.

The Cleric’s mouth tightened as he held the monster’s stare, knowing that this conversation was only meant to be held between it and he.

You, who champion the cause of disorder… you will be the next to fall.

Then Mikieru decided to talk back.

Who are you? Mikieru thought in Latin.

A hissing sound echoed in Mikieru’s mind for several moments before he received a reply.

• • •

I am Urd.

• • •

End of Chapter Thirteen

[zakky]

Sorry for the delay, guys... but I'm back and I'm here to stay ^_^
Stay tuned for the last two chapters of the first book. I'll be posting them within the next two weeks.

Thanks,

Mike

[zakky]

Chapter Fourteen
Urd

“Urd,” Mikieru muttered to himself. “Old Nordic Mythology… Norn of the Past…”

The Cleric was frozen on his feet. For years he had trained for combat with Undead monsters, yet he was totally at a loss as to how to engage this creature. The immense power radiated by Urd was too much for him to fathom.

He watched helplessly as Urd began to well up, like a balloon being filled to its capacity, her skull-face still fixed at his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, she lurched forward and opened her bony jaws, expelling what appeared to be a thick, purple haze that wafted quickly towards Mikieru and his friends.

The Cleric recognized it immediately.

“Poison Spores!” Mikieru yelled to everybody within earshot. “Hold your breaths and get away! Now!”

Almost instantly, Mikieru, his friends, and Akira’s Payon Knights withdrew, trying desperately to get away from the lethal gas.

Mikieru ran away from Urd, only to skid to a stop when he heard Shin-ju’s voice:

“Senpai? Where are you? What’s going on?”

Horrified, Mikieru spun on his heels. Through the darkness, the Cleric saw the form of Shin-ju, down on one knee and oblivious to the column of gas that was drifting dangerously closer.

Mikieru sprinted back towards his Apprentice. “Shin-ju!”

The boy turned at the sound of his name. “Senpai?”

The Cleric held his breath and dove at the boy, wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulders and throwing a gloved hand over the boy’s nose and mouth. Just then, the cloud of Poison Spores came over them and trapped the two of them together.

“Mmph…?” Shin-ju’s muffled voice came from under Mikieru’s hand.

“Don’t breathe, Shin-ju!” Mikieru urged through his teeth. “Whatever you do, don’t breathe!”

Slowly, Mikieru tried to get up with the boy in his arms and desperately sought a way out of the acidic cloud. Finding safety seemed to take an eternity for the two, and they soon found themselves at the brink of either passing out from lack of air or opening their mouths and taking a deep, deadly breath.

It was at this moment when the two heard, once again, the voice of Napolde deep in an Elven incantation.

• • •

The Elf had seen Mikieru run back into the cloud to retrieve Shin-ju, and knew that the two would not find their way out in time. That was when she decided to stop running and force herself to try… something.

Jared watched in stunned disbelief as Napolde raised her arms in completing her incantation. The Merchant suddenly felt strong gusts of wind blowing from behind and around them, seemingly centered on a spot behind Mikieru and Shin-ju.

Napolde stood still, her arms in the air and her eyes fixed at Mikieru and Shin-ju as the miniature cyclone she had summoned effectively funneled and dissipated the gas cloud harmlessly high into the atmosphere.

Mikieru stared at the Elf in awe. She had saved them again.

• • •

The winds died down after several moments, and Napolde fell to her knees in exhaustion. Jared ran to her side in alarm, and together the two looked up as Mikieru ran over to them, Shin-ju in his arms.

“Thank you, my Lady!” the Cleric praised heartily as he lay Shin-ju down. “Please take Shin-ju with you and run—”

One look at Shin-ju’s face cut Mikieru’s voice off at once. The boy’s mouth was open, as if in great pain, and his gray eyes were rolling up into his head!

“Oh no,” Mikieru muttered. “The poison!”

“Shin-ju!” Jared yelled frantically. Beside him, Napolde stared in horror as the boy’s condition worsened before her eyes.

The Cleric shook his head dismally as the boy began to cough and spasm. “He has been infected by Undead Spores,” he said. “This is beyond my skill to heal…”

• • •

Your destiny is death…

• • •

Mikieru heard Urd’s Latin voice in his head once more. Knowing that the creature had just as well killed his Apprentice, he turned to face her in a great fury.

The monster was floating, her bony feet off the ground, and was approaching Mikieru and his friends in speed. There was no time to get up and escape—the Cleric was about to engage the creature in combat, and there was no way around it.

Just then, Mikieru saw the Redeemer lying on the ground between he and Urd. In a rage, the Cleric leaped to his feet and sprinted towards his weapon, sweeping it into his arms without missing a step in his charge towards the monster.

“I will beat you back whence you came, FIEND!” Mikieru shouted angrily, the Redeemer suddenly exhibiting a pale white glow as he and Urd rapidly closed the distance between them.

A bright flash of white lit up the Clock Tower square as Mikieru slammed the Redeemer into Urd’s side.

• • •

“<What was that?>” Akira asked his officers the moment he saw the flash. “<Did any of you see what caused that flash?>”

“<No, sir,>” a few of his officers answered in unison.

“<Then keep your eyes open,>” he ordered. “<We must ascertain the nature of this new threat and pinpoint its location as soon as possible.>”

• • •

“He is fading fast,” Napolde commented worriedly, his hand on Shin-ju’s sweaty forehead. “The potency of the poison is incredible…”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Jared asked, trying to search his packs for potions.

Napolde bit her lip—she knew of a way to neutralize the poison, but she doubted if she had enough energy left to execute the dangerous spell.

“Only one,” the Elf answered slowly. “I can focus my Druid mana into Shin-ju’s bloodstream to kill the poison. I will die if I fail, but I must try…”

The Merchant was shocked at this proposal. “But Napolde…!”

“He saved us, my love! I must try!”

The Elf’s sharp answer kept Jared’s objections at bay. She laid her hands on Shin-ju’s chest and closed her eyes.

• • •

Mikieru’s charged Blessing to the limits of his capabilities, neither minding nor caring the tax it was imposing on his already-depleted energies. He swung the Redeemer at Urd again and again, parrying all the attacks that the creature threw at him.

The Cleric realized that Urd attacked with lethally sharp bones that seemed to extend and retract at will from her hands. The creature easily matched Mikieru’s amplified speed and strength, but the Cleric’s fury kept him from backing down.

Mikieru increased his speed steadily until his eyes caught an opening. Yelling, he thrust the Redeemer at it with reckless abandon—and drove one of its weighted ends straight into Urd’s chest, its Perma-Aspersio aspect burning a hole through the creature’s body.

The white flash came again.

• • •

Akira’s eyes widened.

“<Was that what I think it was?>” he asked in disbelief.

One of his officers turned to him. “<I think it was a Wraith, sire… a rather large one at that…>”

Akira thought the same thing. “<Prepare yourselves, then. Be ready to draw swords and engage the beast at my command.>”

• • •

Napolde’s face twisted in exertion, an audible expression of pain escaping her lips. She poured every ounce of her Elven Druid mana into Shin-ju’s body in hopes that its natural healing aspect would kill the deathly poison in the boy’s blood, but she felt she did not have enough energy to save Shin-ju. She was about to let go.

But she felt Jared place his hand over hers. The Merchant looked into her eyes and nodded.

“You can do this,” he whispered.

It was enough for her to bite back the excruciating pain a bit longer and concentrate on killing the poison in the boy’s blood.

• • •

Mikieru’s enraged visage exhibited a look of surprise when Urd grasped the shaft of the Redeemer that protruded from her chest. Instead of wrenching the holy weapon out of her body, her yellowing fingers pulled it further into the hole in her chest and mockingly dropped her bony jaw at Mikieru.

The Cleric bared his teeth in wrath. He looked into Urd’s bloodshot eyes, dangling from their skull sockets, and saw for a fleeting moment the sight of a dying Shin-ju’s face.

In righteous fury, Mikieru drew his gloved right hand back from the Redeemer’s shaft, curled it into a fist, and hurled a sweeping punch that slammed into Urd’s skull-face. The force delivered was so massive that the creature’s head broke off its spinal cord, sent flying far back into the darkness. It bounced off the cobblestone pavement a few times before rolling to a stop.

Urd’s body began to clatter loudly, and the bony hand left the Redeemer’s shaft. Soon the cloak fell to the ground in a heap, the bones falling off their joints. The smell of rot soon wafted from what was left of Urd’s body.

Mikieru breathed heavily, stepping backwards from the smoldering heap. He pulled the Redeemer free from what was left of Urd’s shattered ribcage, his blue-and-green eyes fixed on the creature’s remains. He stared at it for a long moment, knowing that its ugliness was still preferable to the sight of his dead Apprentice…

• • •

“Mike!”

Jared’s voice came from behind him, but he pretended not to hear.

“Mike!” the Merchant called again. “Napolde stopped the poison! Shin-ju’s alive!”

Shocked, Mikieru turned around. Shin-ju was on the ground, unconscious, his head turned to the side. He was obviously breathing, and he looked as though he was peacefully asleep. Napolde knelt beside the boy’s body, eyes closed and gasping for air. Jared held her up with one hand while waving to Mikieru with the other.

It took a moment for the relieved smile to appear on the Cleric’s face.

“She saved us again,” Mikieru muttered to himself, a hint of surprise in his voice. He walked back towards his friends, his weary arms dragging the Redeemer on the ground.

• • •

Your destiny is death…

• • •

Mikieru froze. Urd’s voice rang clear in his mind, and he once again felt the waves of Undead energies tear through his body from behind!

The stunned Cleric spun on instinct, throwing the Redeemer up in time to keep his body from being torn apart by Urd’s morphic, razor-sharp fingers. The force of the creature’s blow was so strong that it knocked the quarterstaff-mace out of Mikieru’s fingers and threw the Cleric a good distance backward.

Mikieru fell on his back, sent on an uncontrollable tumble towards his friends. When he finally slowed to a stop, he painfully forced himself up on one elbow and raised his eyes to Urd.

Somehow, Urd’s body had pieced itself back together, bone by bone, and now stood as if Mikieru had failed to do any damage to her at all.

Impossible, the Cleric thought, pushing himself to his feet. Even Undead monsters cannot survive a clean decapitation… is this creature immortal?

• • •

Jared looked on in disbelief as Mikieru faced off with Urd a second time, this time without the Redeemer in his hands.

Napolde knew she had to help the Cleric again, but a sharp pang of pain stabbed the Elf in the midsection when she tried to get up on her feet—and she fell to the ground clutching her navel and coughing painfully.

The Merchant glanced at Napolde helplessly. She was spent. Shin-ju was unconscious, and Mikieru was fighting a losing battle.

• • •

Mikieru was at a loss. Even the Redeemer, with its perma-Aspersio aspect, could not hurt this Undead monster. At this moment, when all else had failed, the Cleric could think of only one last attempt to destroy this monster once and for all.

Over my dead body, Mikieru thought in Latin. Understand, FIEND?!

Urd emitted a guttural groan that—Mikieru swore—almost sounded like laughter.

The Cleric planted his feet on the ground and prepared to channel all his remaining mana into his hands. A white aura began to envelope his body, moments before the sound of his voice echoed around the Clock Tower square.

“MAGNUS… LUMINA SANCTI…”

• • •

Akira’s eyes widened as he heard Mikieru’s voice from below, screaming the words:

“BOLT OF THE HEAVENS!”

The Shousa and his officers shielded their eyes as several flashes of white light illuminated the Clock Tower square over the next few moments.

• • •

Mikieru yelled loudly as he flung bolt after bolt of Holy Light at Urd. To the Cleric’s horror, the bolts did not tear through the creature’s body—[i]they bounced right off![i] The bolts ricocheted off Urd’s frame and flew into the sky, smashed into the surrounding hillsides, or were deflected down into the pavement, heaving up sizeable chunks of cobblestone.

I might kill someone! The Cleric thought madly, instinctively ending his ultimate skill prematurely by stopping the formation of Holy Bolts in his hands. But by doing so, the mana surging through his body caused him great pain that shot from head to toe—and Mikieru fell on all fours

I… cannot… match this… Mikieru thought, gasping for air.

Suddenly Mikieru felt numb. Aghast, he realized that he could not move. He felt as though someone had grabbed him by his neck and pulling him up. Against his will, he got to his knees, up to his feet, until his feet hovered over the pavement.

The Cleric turned his eyes to Urd. The creature was floating towards him, her own reddened stare fixed on his.

Am I being… Turned? Mikieru thought, gritting his teeth. Damnation!

This was any Priest’s worst fear—being Turned by the very creatures he had sought to Turn. Urd had Mikieru’s weakened body under her control, and the Cleric could do nothing but watch helplessly as the bones in her right hand began to shapeshift into a sharp, slender spear.

As Urd came closer, she drew her spear-hand back, about to deliver the deathblow by piercing the Cleric through his heart.

“NO!” Mikieru yelled, forcing his right arm from the creature’s hold and casting a hasty Kyrie Eleison shield.

The clear shield shattered as Urd thrust her spear-hand forward—and Mikieru emitted a prolonged groan through his teeth as the bony spear drove itself through his shoulder.

• • •

Urd withdrew her spear-hand after failing to hit Mikieru’s heart on her first stab. She aligned its bloody point at the center of Mikieru’s chest—but a chunk of broken pavement hitting her head kept her from delivering the final blow.

Hissing, Urd turned to see where the broken pavement came from—and saw Jared Wycrow hurling rocks at her face from behind the Cleric.

“Leave him alone, ya big FREAK!” Jared yelled, tears falling from his eyes as he flung the rocks and pavement at the creature. “It’s me you’re after! Y’ want me? Come and get me!”

Napolde stared in shock as Jared reached into his jacket and drew out the Stone for Urd to see.

“JARED, NO!” she screamed.

• • •

“Bastard,” Jared muttered, his teary eyes fixed on Urd. “If everyone’s willing to sacrifice themselves for this Stone, then I’m no different!”

Urd turned to face Jared completely, losing all interest in Mikieru. The Cleric fell to the ground clutching his bloodied shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s it!” Jared fumed, waving the Stone in the air. “Over here, ya BASTARD!”

“JARED, STOP! DO NOT DO THIS!” Napolde screamed again.

Behind them, unnoticed, Shin-ju’s eyes fluttered open to the sound of the Elf’s wails.

• • •

Mikieru watched Urd’s towering form over him as the creature raised her arms over her head, conjuring what seemed to be a black ball of antimatter. It crackled with energy as it grew in size, sending waves of Undead mana in all directions. The Cleric realized that Urd was drawing from her own spiritual energy and compressing it into a form that could be used as a weapon.

Just like Holy Light—on the opposite end of the divine spectrum.

Defiantly, Jared stood his ground, holding the Stone in front of him like a Shield.

I’m the one who started this whole mess, the Merchant thought angrily. If all my friends are gonna get killed over this, it’s only right that I’ll be the first to go… but if you destroy me, you destroy this Stone too!

“DO NOT GIVE HER THE STONE!” the Elf pleaded one last time.

At that moment, Urd’s Darkmatter orb reached its peak compression, and the creature flung it into an unerring trajectory towards the defiant Merchant. As the orb tore through the air toward him, Jared shut his eyes and braced himself for instant death.

• • •

The impact produced a loud explosion—and a bloodcurdling shriek of pain.

• • •

He was unharmed. Jared opened his eyes wildly as a clump of someone else’s blood spattered onto his face. The sight he beheld was one that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

It was a young woman in a silk robe, her back arched and her arms and head thrown back in excruciating pain. Bits of silk, flesh, and blood lay suspended in the air between them in that instant—a moment before the woman lowered her beautiful, tearful face to his.

The Stone fell from Jared’s fingers as he lunged forward and screamed her name.

“NAPOLDE!”

Down on the ground behind Urd, a wide-eyed Mikieru looked on as the stricken Elf fell into Jared’s arms and the Stone bounced off the pavement. Napolde had run straight into the Darkmatter orb’s path to protect Jared and the Stone—and paid for it with her life.

• • •

“Oh no… no, no… Napolde, no, please…” Jared whimpered, holding the Elf close to him as he fell to his knees. “Oh, God, what have I done?”

With one of Jared’s hands cradling her bloodied back and the other brushing her hair off her face, Napolde coughed up blood and pleaded again.

“Do not give it to her… please… do not give her the Stone…”

“Napolde…” Jared sobbed.

“Please, Jared… promise me…”

Jared stared into her eyes for a few moments. She had just sacrificed her life to save him, to save a Stone whose purpose was known to only her. It was all he could do to reluctantly nod in reply. “I…” he choked. “I… promise…”

• • •

At that moment, Jared and Napolde paid no mind to the darkness and the chaos that prevailed around them. At that moment, there was only the two of them, staring into each other’s teary eyes. It was at that moment when Napolde would breathe her last… but not before she left her beloved with her final words.

“Alas… that I must wait so long to hold you again… my love…”

• • •

Napolde closed her eyes and lay perfectly, peacefully still in Jared’s arms. The Merchant’s face contorted in pain as he pulled her body close to his, burying his face on her shoulder. He sorrowfully wept in guilt and loss, his heart-rending sobs heard by all.

• • •

Behind him, Shin-ju lay on his back with his head turned to the side. His empty gray eyes had borne witness to the Elf’s death—and it awakened, hidden deep down inside him, bottled-up emotions and furies that he had tried so hard to forget all these years…

• • •

“<Damn it, we have waited too long!>” Akira yelled, unsheathing his Katana. “<Draw your swords, men! This moment we fight!>”

His officers drew their swords, then followed their leader as he leaped off his hillside perch and descended towards the battlegrounds. They had finally pinpointed the creature’s location—and they were about to engage it in combat themselves.

• • •

Urd’s eyes were set on Jared’s Stone when Akira and his officers landed on the pavement around her. She looked around at the newcomers, realizing that seven fully-armored Payon Knights had her surrounded.

“<It ends now!>” Akira yelled, invoking the self-enhancement spell that had given the Payon Knights their fearsome reputation:

]TWO-HAND QUICKEN!

Soon, yellow auras emanated from the shoulders of all seven warriors surrounding the creature. In a few seconds, they would together unleash an unstoppable barrage of blades in high hopes of killing the creature for good.

• • •

With the sight of Napolde’s horrific death playing over and over in his mind, Shin-ju began to lose consciousness again. The last thing his tortured eyes saw before they closed was the sight of a crying Jared cradling Napolde’s body in his arms, silhouetted by the golden auras of Akira and his warriors as they charged into a surrounded Urd.

[center]• • •

…

…

…

…

…

• • •

“So,” a soft female voice asked. “Found it yet?”

• • •

End of Chapter Fourteen

[zakky]

Chapter 15
After The Storm

What… happened? Where am I? What’s…

Shin-ju found himself awakening. He opened his eyes slightly, only to shut them tight again as they peered directly into the glare of the overcast gray sky.

Overcast?

Shin-ju opened his eyes again, blinking painfully. The sky over Al de Baran had returned to its illuminated grayness—the unholy darkness was gone. Moreover, silhouetted by the heavily-clouded sky, a familiar face looked deep into his eyes with an expression of deep worry and sadness.

“Yoriko…?” Shin-ju uttered. “Yoriko, is that you?”

The girl tried to smile, but her face told Shin-ju that there was no joy. “Shin-ju-kun…” she whispered in return.

Suddenly, with a shock, Shin-ju remembered. He sat bolt upright on the pavement—and took in the wretched sight of the wrecked, reeking, bloodstained Clock Tower square.

Corpses of both Old Occultists and Payon Knights littered the cobblestones. Many were missing limbs, victims of an unstoppable rampage by the creature called Urd. The surviving Payon Knights, aided by some of Al de Baran’s citizens, were slowly beginning the undesirable task of collecting the corpses.

“Is… is it over?” Shin-ju asked, baffled. “What has happened?”

The boy caught sight of both Mikieru and Akira standing on another end of the Clock Tower square. Mikieru’s left shoulder and arm were heavily bandaged and cast in a sling, while Akira nursed a wounded forearm. Their backs were slightly turned to Shin-ju and Yoriko, but both men were obviously casting glances at the boy. Mikieru’s eyes met Shin-ju’s, and the Cleric gave a nod, as if acknowledging the fact that he had finally regained consciousness.

Then Shin-ju’s eyes slowly moved to a spot in the cobblestones between them. He could not believe what he saw then.

The blackened remains of Urd lay still and crumbling in the middle of the Clock Tower square. The creature was, somehow, dead. She looked badly dismembered and burnt. Mikieru’s weapon, the Redeemer, stood vertically at end, one of its weighted points thrust violently deep into the monster’s chest, leaving great cracks in the pavement—and a large mark of black ash. Centered on Urd’s body, three large black characters were inscribed on the shattered cobblestones: they looked like an IHS in lowercase, enclosed by a circle, with four flanged lines emanating in four directions in the shape of a Latin cross. The foot of the ash cross stretched for ten meters from where it began.

Shin-ju slowly turned his puzzled stare into Yoriko’s eyes. “How long was I…” he stuttered. “…how did it end?”

Yoriko stared at him for a moment.

Then she swallowed, looking away.

“Three hours, Shin-ju-kun,” she whispered in reply. “You were unconscious for three hours. The creature… she was defeated. My father and his officers… managed to cut the monster up into several pieces… and Mikieru-sama used his weapon to invoke an exorcism spell. They succeeded… the creature is dead.”

The girl did not turn to look up at him even after she finished.

That’s it? Shin-ju thought, turning his head to survey the carnage around him again. So much destruction… and in the end, Senpai and Mr. Akira… just like that… almost like a dream…

It felt wrong.

But Shin-ju forgot about it as soon as he saw, in another part of the Clock Tower square, Medics trying to coax Jared into letting them take Napolde’s body to the morgues. The Merchant still held the lifeless Elf in his bloodied arms, brushing her hair as though she were only sleeping.

She’s… really dead… Shin-ju thought, the grim reality slowly setting in. So it really happened… It really… wasn’t a dream…

Suddenly Yoriko sobbed loudly and lunged towards Shin-ju, wrapping her arms around the boy’s torso.

“Yoriko?” Shin-ju asked in shock, almost falling over.

“Why, Shin-ju-kun?” the girl wept over and over, burying her face in his tattered shirt. “Why? Why?”

Shin-ju breathed heavily… it seemed as though he was on the brink of tears as well. Try as he did, he could not find the words to answer her. He felt that it was all he could do to put his sprained right hand on her back and return the embrace as best he could.

But there was no comfort to be had on this dark, dark day.

• • •

Mikieru and Akira both stared over their shoulders at the two kids. Neither of them spoke for a while, even after Yoriko embraced Shin-ju and wept on his chest.

“Yoriko-chan,” Mikieru whispered.

“It is all right, Mikieru,” Akira whispered back, not taking his eyes off his daughter and Shin-ju. “I trust her in this.”

The Cleric slowly raised his weary eyes to Akira, as though he knew what the Shousa was talking about—but did not like it one single bit.

“I know what you are thinking, old friend,” Akira muttered. “I feel the same way. What we have done this day will scar Yoriko’s fragile heart forever… but it is for the best. There is no other way for it to be done.”

Mikieru slowly returned his gaze to the two kids.

“Will she be able to bear the task?” the Cleric asked quietly. “She did tell you that Shin-ju was her only friend.”

Akira nodded. “I have no doubt. Yoriko may be weak, but she will never place her own happiness above the greater good. It is for this reason that I allow her to be with Shin-ju now.”

“Then, clearly,” Mikieru concluded, “we must worry about him instead.”

“Quite.”

There was silence between the two old friends for several moments, which they spent staring thoughtfully at Shin-ju and Yoriko. Although Mikieru did not share Akira’s certainty, both were convinced that what they had done today was the right thing to do.

“I must be off,” Akira said, getting up and nursing his injured forearm. “My Knights are in the city, restoring order and collecting the dead. I must see over the operations to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“All right,” Mikieru nodded.

“Take care of yourself, Mikieru,” the Shousa said, eyeing the Cleric’s wounded arm and shoulder. “I will find you again tonight.”

Akira shuffled off, but he slowed to a stop after a few steps. Mikieru looked up in time to see the Shousa take one last lingering look at his daughter.

Mikieru couldn’t help himself. “What is it, Akira?”

Akira shook his head a moment after he heard the Cleric’s question. With a sigh, he turned around and resumed walking.

“I only remembered how uneasy you and I were when we first saw Yoriko and Shin-ju together on that hillside four nights ago,” Akira said dolefully. “Compared to what we have done today… our fears that night seem so trivial now, don’t they?”

Mikieru looked on while Akira sauntered away. He nodded wordlessly.

Yes… that night… very trivial indeed, Mikieru thought, in comparison to what we have done today.

• • •

The makeshift battering ram smashed into the warehouse gates one last time, breaking the wooden crossbar and opening the gates wide. Then the Knights stepped aside, allowing Akira and his officers to step into the storage facility and peer into its contents.

“<Another one,>” an officer mentioned. “<That makes four all in all.>”

Akira nodded, noting the numerous vials of Yellow Potion stored in crates stacked high here and there. “<Four warehouses, thought to have been empty, actually contain all of Midgard’s Yellow Potion,>” the Shousa noted.

“<We have already interrogated the warehouse keepers,>” the officer continued. “<They were in the service of the Occultists in secret for weeks now. Apparently, our Taishou was not only supplying Garrione with manpower and weaponry… he was also providing monetary support, enough to buy out all of Al de Baran’s Yellow Potion merchants into selling all their stocks to the Occultists.>”

“<No wonder there was a Midgard-wide shortage,>” Akira muttered, his eyes scanning the multitude of Yellow Potion crates in the warehouse. “<Bargaining chips, no doubt. If Garrione had defeated us today, Tristan and his Kingdom would be in great jeopardy.>”

“<What should be done, Shousa?>”

Akira turned to his officers. “<Take what you can carry of these medicinal potions and bring them to the infirmary warehouses at once. Administer them to the sick and dying. Quickly!>”

The Knights obeyed unquestioningly, scuttling into the warehouses and taking all the Yellow Potion they could carry. Akira watched as the activity unfolded, remembering something that Mikieru had told him hours earlier.

Perhaps Mikieru was right, he thought. Perhaps Garrione may be redeemed yet…

Pensively, and wearily, Akira turned his eyes upward to the darkening Al de Baran sky.

• • •

The murmur of activity outside echoed past the rickety partitions, causing Shin-ju to move his head to the side and listen. He wondered what was going outside in the infirmary warehouse, as well as in the other makeshift infirmaries in the Machine City. Unable to move much, he sighed at the fact that he wanted to see the happenings outside, but was instead stuck in the small anteroom he was in right now.

Candlelight began to flicker through the smoked, translucent windows of the office, and Shin-ju realized it was already getting dark.

“I am always bandaging your hands, aren’t I?”

Shin-ju looked to his right. Yoriko was treating the cuts in his right hand and was about to wrap it in a bandage.

The boy tried to laugh quietly. “Yeah,” he said. “But this’ll be the last time, Yoriko. I promise.”

The girl did not laugh. She only tightened her lips. Shin-ju’s smile faded at her lack of emotion.

“Please do not move, Shin-ju-kun. I am about to cast your sprained wrist in a bandage. It might hurt—”

Yoriko’s voice trailed off when she pulled back Shin-ju’s sleeve, revealing the Acolyte’s Rosary on his wrist.

“Oh…” Shin-ju began. “That’s…”

Yoriko bit her lip, her eyes fixed on the Rosary.

“So…” she uttered. “…you will become an Acolyte one day, then…”

“It… it’s not what you think, Yoriko,” Shin-ju stammered. “It was just a spur-of-the-moment thing for me… I was fighting Garrione, and he… he made the mistake of insulting Senpai. I wore it to show Garrione that I won’t be his Apprentice. I only wore it to say I was on Senpai’s side… that’s all… I-I’m not really swearing off the secular life just like that…”

Yoriko listened to Shin-ju’s vindications, smiling ever so slightly.

“Is that really the reason?” Yoriko wanted to know.

“Er—no, I…” Shin-ju tried to explain.

But he stopped, his eyes on the Rosary. He calmed down and took a long look at it before continuing.

“I… I think it’s like this… Yoriko,” he continued. “It’s something I’ve learned after being alone in the Desert for three years. I wandered those dunes day after day, looking for myself… looking for a place to belong… looking for something to hold on to. I never found any… not until today, when Senpai told me that anyone—anyone—can find the strength to face one’s enemies… but who can find the courage to forgive them?”

The girl listened, her hand still holding his.

“It was only then that I realized one thing… the reason why I couldn’t find what I was looking for was because… I couldn’t forgive.

“I couldn’t forgive my enemies.

“I couldn’t forgive those people.

“I couldn’t forgive…

• • •

…myself…

• • •

“Hatred kept me from finding what I was looking for. And today, after Senpai taught me about the strength to forgive… I-I just decided that I want to find this strength, Yoriko. I want to find this courage.

“It may lead me to Acolytehood… or it may merely lead me to what I am looking for. It might lead me to myself.

“To myself… yeah. I think… I think that’s my reason, Yoriko.”

Silence prevailed in the anteroom for a moment. Shin-ju turned to look at Yoriko—and to his surprise, tears were rolling down the girl’s pale cheeks. Without a word, she picked up the roll of bandage and began to wrap Shin-ju’s hand, very quickly, with it.

“Either way, then,” a quiet sob escaped her lips, “I will lose you.”

Shin-ju’s eyes widened. “What?”

Yoriko finished bandaging Shin-ju’s hand and laid it down. Then she hurriedly got to her feet and trotted towards the doorway.

“Yoriko!” Shin-ju reached after her, trying in vain to get up.

The girl didn’t listen. She made her way to the doorway with her hand clasped over her mouth, muffling her sadness. Before she disappeared behind the doorjamb, she stopped.

Then, with all her might, she forced herself to take one step back and turn to face her only friend with a smile that Shin-ju finally found familiar.

“You are a good person, Shin-ju-kun!” Yoriko wailed, tears falling from her eyes even as she flashed her honest smile. “You are a good person! I believe in that. I believe in that so much that it hurts! Go and find the courage. Please find yourself. Please go, and find what you are looking for with the Tao’s love… and my own…”

Shin-ju lay on his side, his bandaged hand suspended in the air, his wide eyes fixed on hers.

“Yoriko?” he whispered.

With a sorrowful parting smile, Yoriko turned and disappeared into the hallway outside the anteroom, leaving Shin-ju alone, wondering what she meant.

Yoriko ambled down the stairs and ran through the warehouse infirmary, past the bodies and mourners and the Knights keeping watch. Those who took notice of her also took notice of the candlelight reflecting off the tears falling from her pretty green eyes. Not a few pairs of eyes followed her kimono-clad form as she ran with delicate steps out of the warehouse infirmary and away from her only friend.

• • •

Mikieru moved between the makeshift infirmaries, administering healing services and Last Rites where they were needed. He worked tirelessly with only one good arm, knowing that his presence gave others a semblance of comfort on this dark day. His calm countenance and placid smile hid a deep foreboding that haunted his mind and soul.

Urd, he kept thinking. Norn of the Past…

His battle coat was torn to shreds during the battle with that mysterious Undead creature, so he had nothing to strap the Redeemer to. He had no choice but to hold the heavy weapon in his good hand wherever he went, often having to drag one of its ends on the ground in order to keep from getting too tired.

He stared at a blackened end of the quarterstaff-mace, remembering how he invoked an exorcism charge through the holy weapon and drove it through a dying Urd’s chest. It sealed the monster unconditionally. But if he were left alone to fight the monster, he would have surely died.

Such power… Mikieru thought.

• • •

How did he ever…

• • •

“Good evening, good Brother,” a male voice sounded before him.

Mikieru looked up, snapping out of his troubled thoughts. A man in common Al de Baran plainclothes stood in front of him, wiping his hands with a stained towel.

“Ah, good evening to you as well, citizen,” Mikieru returned the greeting. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, no… thank you. But I might be able to help you with your luggage, sure enough,” the man said, motioning to the Redeemer. “I can carry it for you to your next destination, if you will allow me?”

The Cleric smiled at this welcome offer.

“Yes, please,” Mikieru said, extending his good arm to the man. “Thank you.”

The man obligingly took the Redeemer in both his hands and took it off the Cleric’s.

“Oof!” the man grunted, laughing. “Quite heavy it is! It’s like lifting a person, sure enough.”

“Two persons, sure enough,” Mikieru laughed in return, enjoying the change in mood the man brought to him. Together, the two of them walked down the messy street towards the last warehouse—a makeshift morgue.

“It was a good thing you came along when you did, good Brother,” the man said, shifting his weight to keep the Redeemer steady in his hands. “When this mess started, I was pretty sure I wasn’t gonna live through it… and now here I am, alive and well.”

“It is only my duty,” the Cleric answered humbly.

“Aye, and I’m perpetually in awe about how you manage to stay sane. There’s so much in Midgard that needs your attention, and you hardly get thanked for it… I kinda can’t help but wonder what you Priests really live for, y’know?”

For some reason, Mikieru was in no mood to talk about his vows. He decided to change the subject.

“Tell me, where were you when all this madness began?”

The man sighed. “I was home, in our village just outside Al de Baran’s east wall. It was very early in the morning—the sun wasn’t up yet—when sentries sounded the alarm and woke us all up. The Machine City was under siege. It was all we could do to answer to the call to arms and usher the women and children away from the village.”

Mikieru nodded. “What happened next?” he asked.

“Well, we managed to load many of the women and children onto our pack horses and wagons and sent them on a southerly route to Prontera… just in time before the first of the Occultists began attacking our village. We held them back for as long as we could… we tried to give the women and children some time to escape into the darkness. But shortly after dawn, we were forced to retreat into the wastelands. We stayed there for a few nights, until today’s midday darkness compelled us to return to Al de Baran. Thankfully, we found the Machine City liberated by then… by you, sure enough.”

The man sighed heavily. “I don’t know if the women and children managed to get into the Capital. I don’t know if my wife and child are still…”

Mikieru stared at the man thoughtfully for several moments. As they neared the morgue warehouse, the Cleric asked the man a question.

“What is your name, friend?”

And he received the answer he expected: “Gerrold, sire.”

Mikieru smiled, reaching forward to take the Redeemer from the man’s hand. “Then you have no cause to worry,” he stated calmly. “Ana and Dell are safe in Prontera.”

Gerrold froze, eyes wide. “R-really? They are?”

“I met them on my way here. They are all alive and well.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you so much, good Brother! Words cannot express… I… I must go! I must tell the others! I must give them the good news, sure enough!” Gerrold sputtered, gushing like a puppy at Mikieru’s revelation. Without another word, Gerrold sprinted up the street again, looking for his fellow villagers.

Mikieru’s green-and-blue eyes contentedly followed Gerrold as he ran away.

What do I live for, you ask? The Cleric thought, smiling slightly. Moments like these… sure enough.

• • •

Jared sat alone in the morgue warehouse’s dark anteroom. Napolde’s body lay on a cot in front of him, draped in linen. Since the moment she died in his arms, the Merchant had never left her side.

Jared’s eyes were dry. His tears had all been cried out. The pain was still there, but it was slowly giving way to a growing numbness.

Guilt.

Slowly, he began to wonder how it all led to this moment.

• • •

A knock came on the door.

Jared looked up from his ledgers and cup of coffee with a start. It was only a few minutes past four in the morning—market traders were not supposed to be at the Trading Post for another hour and a half. The young Merchant wondered who it might have been.

He got up and walked towards the door, unlocking it and pulling one of its massive leaves slightly open. He peered into the darkness outside, not exactly knowing what to expect to see.

A figure in a hooded cloak stood at his doorstep.

“Can… can I help you?” Jared greeted warily. “The Trading Post doesn’t open until five-thirty.”

“Hello, Jared Wycrow,” a melodic feminine voice returned the greeting. “I am merely here to deliver a gift from James.”

“James?” Jared repeated.

The woman extended her hand, offering Jared a parcel containing several aged sheets of paper.

“Accept these, Jared Wycrow, and know that you are destined for great things,” she intoned.

Mystified, Jared stared at the documents for a few moments before reaching out and taking it from her hand. Holding the parcel, he recognized on it the signature of the man who bequeathed the Trading Post to him—his deceased great-grandfather and well-known Goldraider, James J. Wycrow.

Stunned, the Merchant turned back to the hooded woman. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I am but a messenger in this grand scheme,” she answered quietly. “But I will not refuse to answer a question from an inherent Keeper. My name is Napolde Linwelyn, my liege, and I am here to serve you.”

The woman slowly pulled the hood from her head, revealing her golden hair, pointed Elf-ears, and ethereal green stare to him for the first time.

• • •

Jared could not believe his eyes. Two days ago, he reluctantly began reading James’s writings. Following the instructions set forth, the Merchant and the Elf messenger uncovered a hidden basement in the Trading Post. They followed the James’s directions further, decoding riddles and finding their way through labyrinths, until finally reaching a strange, medieval looking alcove.

There was a podium in the middle of the chamber, and on it was a smooth, three-faced gray rock.

Jared approached the podium carefully. Then he reached out with both hands and took the Stone in his hands.

“This… this is it?” Jared whispered. “This is what my great-grandfather spent his life protecting?”

“It… is… not… the last wish… of the Raiders of Gold… that the Stones’ locations… be lost forever…”

Jared looked over his shoulder. Napolde was there, holding a torch over her head. She was reciting. Her eyes were on the wall behind the podium. Jared turned to the wall to see carvings on it… in a runic language that he did not understand.

“…but that… they be protected… by those… whom their Keepers… find worthy.”

Napolde lowered her eyes to Jared, who held the Stone in both hands.

“My liege,” she said in a quivering, excited voice. “You are in possession of one of Midgard’s most precious and dangerous relics. Keep it safe… and do not let evil hands take it from you… for the fate of millions may be hinged on the choices you make from this moment forth.”

Jared looked back and forth between the Stone and the Elf incredulously. This? An ordinary looking Stone? The fate of millions? It did not make sense at all.

Then he took another look at James’s documents. On the bottom of its final page, the old Goldraider had written, in plain Common language:

It is not the last wish of the Raiders of Gold that the Stones’ locations be lost forever, but that they be protected by those whom their Keepers find worthy.

• • •

“It is quite strange, this land of yours,” Napolde said, her face in the wind. “Your cities are walled and your houses are forbiddingly enclosed. What is it that your people protect so fearfully, my liege?”

Jared snorted in amusement, but did not get up from the grass. He looked at Napolde’s sitting form beside him, noticing that the Elf still had not gotten used to life in a Human city even after two weeks.

“What is it that we protect?” Jared repeated, laughing slightly. “That’s easy. We protect our assets… those things important to us… from thieves and conquerors.”

“I see. You protect yourselves… from yourselves,” she noted.

Jared’s smile faded. “Aw, now that was sassy,” he said. “What gives?”

“I did not mean to spite you, my liege,” Napolde answered, brushing her blonde hair from her face. “It is only that you protect those things that are important to you so firmly, only to keep them from being taken or destroyed. By whom? By none other than your fellow Humans.”

Jared yawned, his eyes moving towards the blue sky above the hillside. “I suppose there are no such things as Elven thieves and conquerors, huh,” he said. “Don’t tell me that your people live in perfect harmony with each other.”

“We do.”

“Er… really?”

“Yes, we do,” the Elf answered. “Millennia of war within ourselves and our black cousins have taught us that the need for power and wealth only lead civilizations to ruin. It is only in embracing humility… in loving your fellows… and in finding an End-in-itself… that one may truly be at peace. After all, what would you have left if you gained all the wealth in the world but lost your own soul?”

Jared had no answer to this. He had always been unreceptive to words like those—words that were better tuned to the ears of philosophers and priests—but the past two weeks with Napolde had opened his mind considerably and now found himself pondering on what she just said.

“Have you found your End-in-itself, Napolde?” Jared asked.

Honestly, she shook her head no. “I have been trying to find one all my life, and it still eludes me, my liege,” she answered, turning slightly to look at his lying form. “But… when I look at you, I am reminded that it was I who led you to the Stone… and that I serve a Keeper… and, indeed, that I am also to be at your side until your destiny as a Keeper is revealed to you. I think… to see you fulfill your destiny, and realize all your dreams… that would be my End-in-itself. None would honor my soul better.”

The two remained locked in each other’s gaze for several moments after that statement. Then Jared slowly pushed off the ground and sat up beside her.

“And realize all my dreams?” Jared repeated, smiling thoughtfully. “I thought you Elves do not believe in wealth.”

Napolde smiled back. “But obviously, my liege, Humans do,” she answered. “And… I think I am willing to forget a small part of my beliefs in order to see you happy.”

Jared stared into her beautiful green Elf-eyes. She never seemed to blink. The Merchant wondered if all Elves were like that—with the ability to look straight into another’s eyes, without fear or suspicion, knowing that every word said between the two individuals was the truth in its purest form. At that moment, Jared was convinced—he wanted to know this world… this wonderful, mysterious world that was Napolde Linwelyn.

He reached up and brushed some strands of her golden hair off her eyes.

“I don’t know much about this ‘End-in-itself’ business,” Jared whispered, “but if I really do have to find one, then I guess I know what’s on top of my list.”

He placed his hand on her cheek.

“I’m gonna realize my dreams… and when I do, you’ll be there with me.”

Napolde laughed sweetly. “But my liege, that is not much of an End-in-itself at all.”

Jared shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s… it’s all I see right now. It’s all I want.”

The Elf’s smile gravitated to a thoughtful one. She looked tenderly into his eyes, knowing that what he had just told her was the truth… in its purest form.

“I…” Napolde began. “I am honored… and very happy, my liege.”

“Ahh, whatever,” Jared mockingly whispered, then added: “And Napolde… call me Jared.”

Napolde’s face flushed with red. “I can’t do that,” she laughed, blinking.

“Come on, it doesn’t take much!” Jared whispered back, laughing.

“No, I can’t,” she murmured, still blinking. “It is difficult to suddenly change the way I call you…”

Jared shrugged again. “Well, in that case… you just need to say it once.”

Their faces were inches from each other. After a moment, Napolde lowered her eyes and nodded.

“Very well then,” she said, raising her beautiful eyes to his one more time. “…Jared.”

Jared smiled at this, and they both edged closer and closed their eyes as their lips met.

Napolde referred to the Merchant as “Jared” from that moment on.

• • •

“Why did you come back, Jared?”

• • •

Jared opened his eyes.

Napolde’s body still lay on the cot in front of him, with candlelight throwing shadows over her delicate, dead form.

She was gone. Truly, utterly lost…

The Merchant thought about that afternoon in the hillside, where he and Napolde exchanged their first “I love you’s.” It was only shortly after that tender moment that the first of the Occultists began showing up at Jared’s doorstep, demanding for the Stone.

Napolde had warned Jared that nothing—not even her own life in danger—should make him surrender the Stone to the Occultists. Then, only a few days later, he would be forced to flee the Machine City after the Occultists took Napolde hostage.

Why did you come back?

Why did I come back? Jared thought, closing his eyes again. I just couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering. I loved you so much. Human weakness, indeed. I would sooner kill myself than live without you. But, now, you are gone, aren’t you? Will I live with this guilt forever?

• • •

I am willing to forget a small part of my beliefs in order to see you happy.

• • •

The Merchant opened his eyes again.

No, he thought. You wouldn’t want me to feel guilty for the rest of my life. You’d want me to fulfill my destiny… and realize my dreams… wouldn’t you?

Jared’s mouth tightened with resolve.

I think I’ve found my End-in-itself after all, he thought. My End-in-itself… is yours. I will keep you in my heart forever, my love… so that when all of this is over, we will both have reached our Ends. I will fulfill my destiny and realize my dreams, and you… you will be there with me when I do.

Jared felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and recognized the faces of Mikieru and Akira, who had come to grieve with him.

“Hey, guys,” Jared greeted, mustering a smile.

Mikieru nodded. “Everything is all right?” the Cleric asked quietly.

Jared nodded, turning his eyes back to Napolde’s body. “Everything is where it should be,” he answered.

Akira smiled at this statement, favorably surprised by Jared’s tranquil reply. Then he took a seat on Jared’s right while Mikieru sat on the Merchant’s left, and the three old friends began their prayers for the repose of a truly beautiful soul.

• • •

To be concluded

[zakky]

Chapter Sixteen
Lest We Forget Who We Truly Are

Four days had passed since the city of Al de Baran was liberated. Since then the Machine City’s government and Constabulary had regained control of the peace and order situation, and many of the villagers from its surrounding farmlands had begun to return. Prontera had sent Knights, Acolytes, and Presbyters to aid in the citizens’ recovery, though many thought the help sent from the Capital was too little, too late.

Still, the citizens recovered more quickly than anyone had expected. All those who had died in the anarchy were collected during the first two days—there were 1,211 dead all in all—and the first of many funeral pyres were lit early on the third day. Now, on the morning of the fourth day, most of Al de Baran’s citizenry were on the east hillside, carrying the ashes of their loved ones. Presbyters from Prontera were there to administer to the mass funeral, and many had gathered to mourn.

Surprisingly few people chose to speak out against Prontera’s lack of action during Garrione’s reign of terror. Perhaps it was due to the shock of the happenings, or perhaps it was due to the mellower attitudes that prevailed this far from the Capital. Or perhaps, Mikieru thought, that like him, these people simply wanted to put all of this behind them as soon as they possibly could.

He liked the idea, but there was no way for the Cleric to know whether or not it was the real reason by merely judging the expressions on the faces of those who had come to mourn.

He stood behind the crowd, his arm still in a sling, and watched as the Presbyters attended to the mourners. His eyes followed the movements of each one in the multitude, from those who received blessings for the urns in their hands to those who were laying the urns in the well-dug holes in the ground.

A light rain was falling, and Mikieru thought the weather suited the occasion perfectly.

• • •

Mikieru was nonetheless disquieted.

Many questions remained unanswered.

Wordlessly, Mikieru padded his long black coat with his good hand, feeling the forms of the two Stones in his inside pocket. Only he and Akira knew that the Stones were with him. They had agreed that it was best that the Stones’ locations be kept secret until the two friends found out more about their natures—and then decide ultimately what to do with them…

How many of these Stones are there? Mikieru wondered. Moreover… who was Urd? What was Urd? And who is this ‘One’ that the Taishou claimed forged Sinjustice for Garrione?

Garrione had told Mikieru, back in the Mjolnir mountain pass, that this was only the beginning. And, like an eerie prophecy, the Knight-Mage had also warned Mikieru that only one of them would live to see the end…

• • •

“You asked me if I believed in Fate,” a voice sounded behind him.

Mikieru looked over his shoulder to see Gorban, the village chief, ambling towards him with a rustic smile on his face.

“Master Gorban,” Mikieru greeted, bowing his head slightly. “It is good to see you again.”

“Likewise, Brother. It is good to see that you had survived Garrione’s reign, and put an end to it even. Magnificent work.”

The Cleric nodded numbly, turning back to watch the proceedings in the valley below him. “Actually, most of the work was done after the battle.”

Gorban laughed at this self-depreciating comment as he stood beside the tall Cleric. Together, they watched the funerals for several moments.

“Mikieru,” Gorban began solemnly, “Back in that mountain pass, you told me that you needed to atone for your sins… both for the things you failed to do and for those things you have done. But, this morning, all I see is a free Al de Baran, and I have no doubt it is largely due to your choices and actions.”

Mikieru sighed heavily, as though he disagreed. “You flatter me, Master Gorban,” he said. “I only stood up against Garrione because he threatened to destroy so much.”

“Mm. So you have the strength to face the sins of others, but not your own?”

The Cleric had no answer to this. He turned his eyes, hidden by his round-rimmed dark glasses, to the village elder. For once, he wanted to hear what the old man had to say.

“But of course,” Gorban laughed quietly. “Altruism. The epitome of the Priesthood, alternately your greatest strength and weakness. People these days tirelessly question the logic behind your selflessness, yet it fails to dispel the fact that Priests are the strongest beings to walk the earth.”

Mikieru listened for a moment. Then, once more, he turned his eyes to the funeral in the valley—and saw, amidst the crowd of mourners, Gerrold. The man had his arm wrapped around Ana, and she had a sleeping Dell in her arms.

“So much destruction, yes?” Gorban sighed. “But because of people like you, Midgard’s seeds will always fall on good soil.”

Mikieru also saw Ranche in the crowd, who saw the Cleric and nodded in his direction.

“That is what I believe in, Brother,” Gorban said. “That is all that matters to me.”

Mikieru and the village elder turned to face each other.

“Thank you, Master Gorban,” Mikieru said after a silent moment, and he shook the old man’s gnarled hand.

Gorban left him after that, walking down the hillside to join his villagers in mourning. Mikieru saw this as Al de Baran’s first step in returning to normal, but it did not make him feel at peace.

Ah, yes. The eternal battle between good and evil, Mikieru thought. But this is not about good and evil, Master Gorban. It is more about right and wrong. But you see only the welfare of your villagers, and I do not blame you. As for me, well… only time will tell me whether or not I had done the right things in these events.

Slowly, and somberly, Mikieru turned round and left the funeral, walking instead to another part of the hilly lands east of Al de Baran.

• • •

Mikieru did not mind the chill of the drizzle as he sat on a rock on the other side of the hills. His eyes were fixed on the tombstone of an old friend, knowing that he was looking at both the beginning and the end of Al de Baran’s turmoil.

He had given Garrione Last Rites when he died. And after the dust settled, Mikieru commissioned the Knight-Mage’s tombstone himself, as no one else would have done so.

In the silence of the hillside, Mikieru found his thoughts drifting back to his battle with Garrione, to the moment when the Knight-Mage had Mikieru and Jared trapped in his Firewall spell. Garrione could have killed them then and there, but didn’t…

• • •

Garrione’s smile faded. He was about to summon another malevolent spell that would without a doubt finish off the Cleric and the Merchant, yet he simply allowed himself to look at the two for a moment longer.

The three old friends maintained their stares at each other for a few moments, as if the situation was a stalemate when it actually wasn’t.

• • •

Mikieru opened his eyes and looked upon Garrione’s tombstone again.

A few moments of lucidity, I would like to think, the Cleric thought. You had the choice whether to kill us or spare us in that moment. That you took a few moments to ponder the choice… it convinced me that you were, in fact, redeemable.

A chilly breeze came, blowing the Cleric’s long brown hair over his dark glasses.

I will tell you a secret, Garrione, Mikieru spoke in his mind. Five months ago, I would have fiercely maintained that I did not have anything to do with your mutiny, merely due to the fact that I did not take part in the mutiny itself. But that was five months ago. Since then, I have met Shin-ju, who, even as a hated Nomad, did not hesitate to put his own life at risk to save a Northfolk girl from a flooded water channel. With one single selfless act, he had reminded me of all that I had taken for granted after the War… and that even the things we neglect or fail to do affect so many others besides ourselves.

Mikieru reached up and touched the silver cross around his neck.

Five months ago, I had nothing to do with your mutiny. But now, since I did not prevent it when I could have, I am the only one left alive to answer for it. You need not worry about whether or not I will answer for it, old friend… the question would be whether you would find it in yourself to approve of my methods of doing so.

The Cleric closed his eyes and sighed.

If you chose not to kill us at that moment… if you had the chance to meet Shin-ju… if you were still alive today… what would you say to me, Garrione?

• • •

Mikieru heard footsteps in the damp grass to his left. He looked up and saw Shin-ju, bandages on his hands and cheeks, and limping due to a wound on his leg.

“Senpai,” Shin-ju greeted in surprise. The boy had only been passing by—he was instead heading to the edge of Al de Baran’s easterly hillsides.

“Shin-ju,” Mikieru returned the greeting.

Shin-ju curiously eyed Mikieru and the tombstone in front of the Cleric. Slowly, he walked off his course and ambled towards Mikieru’s side, trying to see who was buried under the stone.

Mikieru heard Shin-ju sigh when the boy recognized the name carved on the plaque. Shin-ju straightened and stared at it in thought.

“Even after all he’s done, huh,” Shin-ju uttered.

Mikieru nodded, his eyes on the tombstone as well. “Especially after all he has done.”

Master and Apprentice gazed at Garrione’s tombstone for several silent moments. Mikieru then turned slightly to the boy and ventured.

“Apparently, the Blessing trance was not the only Holy Art taught to you by that Priestess in the Desert,” the Cleric said, eliciting a motion from the boy’s lips. “When Garrione pelted you with his Fire Bolts, you managed to execute a Kyrie Eleison Sphere Shield in a pinch.”

Shin-ju sighed, but did not answer.

“Be that as it may, though, I am still more interested in your other skills,” Mikieru continued. “That instant movement skill that allowed you to escape Garrione’s Nine Pillars Of Fire, and that incredibly powerful barehanded attack that you used to break Garrione’s hold on his Firewalls… there are some quite interesting things you can do with those pearls of yours.”

Shin-ju bowed his head, hiding his eyes with his blue hair.

Mikieru turned to look at the boy. “Your name is not Shin-ju, is it,” he said, his voice not in the tone of a question. “In Payonese, shinju means ‘pearl.’”

Instead of getting an answer, Mikieru received a cold question.

“What happened in the War, Senpai?” the boy asked, his eyes still hidden by his hair. “Was it you who burned our village outside Morroc? Did you really kill innocent Nomad children?”

Mikieru’s eyelids drooped at this question. The Cleric took a deep breath and looked at Garrione’s tombstone again.

“During the War, the Midgard Alliance fought on two fronts,” Mikieru explained quietly. “There was the Morroc front, where the Alliance fought to protect its borders from the advancing Black Nomads, and the Antioc front. The Antioc front pushed beyond enemy lines and attempted to reach the White Nomad city of Antioc before the Black Nomads could lay siege to it.

“Garrione and I were on the Antioc front. We fought tirelessly, but we did not reach Antioc in time. We were still far from Antioc when it fell to the Black Nomads.

“I was nowhere near Morroc, Shin-ju. I could not have been the one to set your village on fire.”

Shin-ju did not move.

“But, yes… God help me, I took part in a faulty raid in the push to Antioc… and I stained my weapon with the blood of innocents. That was a night I will never be able to forget… no matter how hard I will try.”

The boy bowed his head further. Mikieru said no more.

“We’re not so different after all,” Shin-ju whispered.

Mikieru looked up at him. “What?” he asked.

Shin-ju looked up at Garrione’s tombstone again. “The War left scars in both of us… scars that’ll haunt us for the rest of our lives. Here we are, living in a cycle of pain and regrets… ever wanting to move on, ever wanting to forget what happened in that forsaken Desert.”

Mystified, Mikieru stared at his Apprentice, listening to what the boy had to say.

“But if you look a little more closely, you’ll see that we’re made up of nothing else but those scars. It’s our choices and actions that define us. If we ever chose to forget those scars… what would be left?”

The wind and light rain blew at the two, but they did not notice it.

“And therefore we must bear the pain?” Mikieru asked. This time, his voice was in the tone of a question.

Shin-ju turned his back to the tombstone without glancing at his Master.

“Lest we forget who we truly are,” Shin-ju answered sadly, limping away from Garrione’s gravesite.

Mikieru watched the boy saunter away for a moment, then he turned back to Garrione’s tombstone with a sigh.

“Oh, and Senpai…” Shin-ju called.

Mikieru turned to look at Shin-ju, whose back was turned to him.

“…Shinju has two meanings.”

Shin-ju resumed his walk to the edge of the hills. Left alone, Mikieru pondered what his mysterious Apprentice had just said to him.

After several pensive moments, Mikieru rose from his rock. He took the Redeemer into his hands and began to walk in the direction Shin-ju had taken, casting one last look at the words carved on Garrione’s tombstone.

Garrione Sheppard

b. 1363
d. 1394

“Believed in justice above all else.”
--Bro. Mikieru Makimachi, S.F.C.

• • •

At the edge of Al de Baran’s eastern hillside, at a ridge that overlooked the great ocean in the east, a small crowd had gathered. Jared’s friends and colleagues had come to pay their last respects to the person that the Merchant had loved the most.

Shin-ju was in the last row, behind everyone else. Secretly, he spied Akira and Yoriko at the front row, on the other end of the crowd. The girl was clinging to her father, and the boy was sure she was avoiding his gaze for some reason.

Shin-ju had never found out what Yoriko meant when she suddenly left him alone in that infirmary warehouse four days ago. They had not spoken to each other since.

All thoughts of Yoriko soon left his mind, however, as Jared was finally seen approaching the burial site. Napolde’s ashes were stored in a cube-shaped urn that he wore around his neck in a sash.

Mikieru walked beside Jared. He was to administer the funeral rites.

• • •

For Shin-ju, it seemed like a dream. The light rain, blown by the ocean gusts, threw a haze over the cliff edge, making all the black-clad mourners look shapeless. But when Mikieru began leading the crowd in their prayers, his eyes clearly saw the movements of Jared’s hands as he took the urn lovingly from the sash.

Shin-ju sniffed the scent of pine.

The boy looked around. The hills were grassy and dotted with deciduous trees here and there, but he could not find a single pine tree anywhere.

Then he remembered. After he defeated Garrione, he fell into the arms of a freed Napolde—and into the sweet scent of pine that he liked very much.

Tears began to form in the boy’s eyes.

• • •

Jared knelt on the damp ground, placing the urn in a stone receptacle in the ground. Then he rose, dropping a wreath of flowers into the case.

“Thank you, Napolde,” Jared whispered, tears streaming down his eyes. “I love you… forever.”

Mikieru stepped forward and placed a comforting gloved hand on the Merchant’s shoulders, and the two friends watched as some of Jared’s peers fell in line to drop flowers in the receptacle, pay their last respects, and shake Jared’s hand.

Yoriko began weeping on Akira’s robes, and the tall Knight held her close.

It was soon Shin-ju’s turn. The boy slowly walked towards Napolde’s receptacle and stopped. The scent of pine was still there and it gave him… a small sense of peace.

You saved all of us back then, the boy thought. And even in death, you’re still here with us…

Shin-ju extended his hand slightly and dropped a single white flower into the receptacle. At first, a gust of wind seemed to blow the flower off course and into the grass in front of the stone case, but… somehow… the flower moved into the wind, fell into the stone case and landed soundlessly in front of Napolde’s urn.

The boy smiled. Just like how you caught me back then, he thought gratefully. Thank you.

Shin-ju turned to face Jared. He extended his hand to shake the Merchant’s, but was surprised when Jared reached out and pulled the boy close in a one-armed hug.

“Thanks, big guy,” Jared whispered to Shin-ju. “Thanks for everything.”

Shin-ju sighed. Despite all his worries, he was still in the company of good friends. All was right in the world today. Above them, the rain stopped, and the sun and the blue sky began to peek through the leaden clouds.

The dark days in Al de Baran had finally come to a fitting end.

Epilogue

At that very moment, nearly two thousand miles to the south, a fierce sandstorm thundered through a vast uncharted area in the Sograt Desert. This was a portion of the Desert never frequented by Humans, as powerful sandstorms such as the one that prevailed this day were commonplace, and large monsters of the sand roamed the dunes. Cacti and thorn bushes grew in plenty here, although these were not the reasons why this portion was known as the “Valley Of Thorns”—the name was ultimately a tribute to its dangerously impassable terrain.

But neither the storm, monsters, nor the terrain hindered the Assassin from making the four-day trek from Morroc.

The Assassin made his way through the sandstorm as best he could, knowing that the summons he received four days ago was imperative to the highest degree. He had waited years to receive this summons, and it finally came when he had almost lost all hope…

He stopped. This was the end of his four-day journey. The blinding sandstorm did not hinder him from recognizing the towering, pyramid-shaped colossus before him.

The ancient Shadow Temple, built millennia ago to a cause Midgard had forgotten.

The Assassin made his way into the Temple, remembering the instructions that had been given to him long, long ago.

• • •

The Assassin descended stairwell after stairwell and made his way through labyrinth after labyrinth. He had not forgotten the directions given to him by the One. He had thought he had forgotten them after years of inactivity, yet the summons he received at his Morroc home made him remember everything in an instant.

Down to the left of the passage… a hidden lever between the two rightmost stones… the door will roll back.

The Assassin stepped through the door and found himself facing a void. It was a circular cavern deep under the surface of Midgard, with holes dotting its reddish rock face. The smell of rot seemed to waft from upwards from the void in the middle. The Assassin could not see the bottom of the cavern nor the top—he felt that if he chose to jump into the darkness of the cavern below him, he would ultimately end up in Hell itself.

If it really exists, he thought.

But he did not speak. He knew that the moment he stepped through the hidden door, eyes of powerful individuals began watching his every movement. He knew it was not his place to speak unless spoken to in this dark, dark gathering.

He raised his eyes to a certain being, sitting on a ledge high up on the rock face in front of him, just as the first of the voices sounded and signaled the beginning of the gathering.

“It has been three years… the child lives, then.”

“Al de Baran… astounding that he has managed to reach that far north.”

“I had not thought it possible.”

“Indeed, though that is not all. Because of him, not two, but three of the relics have been unearthed in this parallel.”

“Our plans will undoubtedly persist… only now, our focus shifts from the now-dead Orient leader… to the boy.”

“What should be done, Ancient One?”

At this, the Assassin saw the sitting form rise to its feet.

“Ybara,” the One called in a bass diction.

The Assassin fell to one knee and bowed his head.

“I listen, One,” the Assassin answered.

“Be thankful. You are to receive another chance at redemption.”

The Assassin’s face contorted in joy upon hearing this, and tears fell from his closed eyes.

One of the other voices sniffed audibly at the sight of the Assassin’s weeping.

“That is it?” the voice asked. “You place your hopes on this… this man of the Desert, Ancient One?”

The Assassin opened his teary eyes and raised them to the One, who had turned around and began walking back into the hole behind him.

As the Assassin’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he realized that the “hole” behind the One was not merely a hole—it was instead the mouth of a statue head, and the “ledge” on which the One had sat on was the statue’s outstretched tongue.

The Assassin fell backward as he realized that he beheld the gigantic statue of a man, carved out of the rock face, with his hands bound over his head and his face hideously warped in a horrific expression of pain.

“It is not a matter of hope…” the One’s answer echoed through the bottomless cavern as he disappeared into the statue’s mouth.

• • •

“It is only a matter of time.”

• • •

One Who Waits I – The Nomad Who Wasn’t
© 2006 by Zack Ybara <zack_ybara@yahoo.com>