Clashing of swords

Drygal, the proud capital of the Kingdom of Biatus, sprawled beneath the commanding presence of its castle perched atop a plateau. From this vantage point, the city unfolded like a living tapestry, the beating heart of a realm nestled within the Sea of the Fallen, known in the ancient tongue as "Mardefan."

Biatus, or "the blessed ones" as they referred to themselves, held a deep conviction that they were intricately crafted by the hands of the gods. They embraced a sacred duty – to stand as divine servants guarding against the encroaching darkness threatening their world.

Walking through the lively streets of Drygal, the pulse of the city was palpable. Life thrived, and an air of tranquility and joy wafted through the bustling crowds. Children played with carefree abandon, their laughter harmonizing with the overall contentment that enveloped the city. Everywhere, faces beamed with happiness, reflecting the peace residing in the hearts of the people.

Songs praising the king's justice filled the air, a hopeful chorus that his rule would endure, bringing blessings to his family. Upon reaching the castle, the resounding clash of blades filled the air, a symphony of steel resonating from the nearby training grounds.

Known as the Black Grounds, the training area derived its name from the darkened soil, marked by the sweat and blood of countless trainees. Within this solemn expanse lay five arenas where knights honed their skills through intense combat against one another.

A line of fresh recruits stood shoulder to shoulder, their animated conversations hushed as Draven, the knights' seasoned trainer, made his imposing presence known.

"Attention, everyone," his voice boomed across the Black Grounds.

Instantly, the atmosphere shifted, settling into a solemn stillness as each recruit snapped to a rigid position, their unwavering gazes fixed forward. Draven's discerning eyes surveyed the assembled recruits, his countenance grave.

"Welcome," his voice carried weight. "Welcome to the knighthood. I see faces brimming with hope, dreams of an easy journey. Let me dispel that notion. I made a promise to the king—to forge true knights of Biatus. I intend to honor that promise. To me, you're a collection of individuals unaware of honor's meaning. You're cogs, meaningless unless you grasp what honor truly entails. I'll teach each of you what honor is."

Draven's words echoed through the Black Grounds, a stern reminder that the path to knighthood was no idyllic stroll but a demanding journey fraught with challenges. The recruits absorbed his words, a collective understanding settling among them that the road ahead would demand more than mere physical prowess. It required the embodiment of honor, a quality that Draven was determined to instill within each aspiring knight.

Not far off, other knights diligently trained in the art of swordsmanship, their blades slicing through the air with precision. Simultaneously, a group focused on harnessing the power of their Enclave, the fiery aura of Pyroguard enveloping them as they honed their unique abilities.

Amidst this training tableau, there stood Talon, a third-class knight whose responsibilities led him to the stables, caring for the kingdom's noble steeds. As the echoes of Draven's words reached him.

Honor, honor, everything is honor, what a load of horse shit," he mumbled to himself, bitterness lacing his tone. "What will honor do in the face of death? What will it do for your family after you're gone? It's just a word we use to satisfy our ill minds." Talon's cynicism painted a stark contrast to the fervor of Draven's teachings.

"Hoy, Talon, are you even listening to me?" Bardmin's voice broke through his thoughts.

Talon turned his attention to Bardmin, another knight working alongside him in the stables. The weariness in Talon's eyes hinted at the internal conflict brewing within him.

"Huh?" Talon blinked, looking over at Bardmin. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"I said you better finish your work before we get yelled at," Bardmin replied.

Talon looked at him with questioning eyes and said, "Tell me, Bardmin, what do you think honor is?"

Bardmin paused in his tasks, meeting Talon's gaze with a contemplative expression. "Honor? It's a tricky thing, isn't it? Draven says it's about doing what's right, even when it's hard. But to be honest, I think it's more than that. It's about leaving something good behind, something that lasts even after you're gone."

Talon's eyes darkened, a shadow passing over his face as he shook his head. "Leaving something good behind? What good does honor do when you're lying in a pool of your own blood, forgotten in some forsaken corner of this kingdom? It's a fleeting ideal, Bardmin. A word that loses its meaning when faced with the harsh truth of this world. What good is honor when your family starves in your absence, and your name is swallowed by the unforgiving silence of the grave?"

Bardmin sighed, acknowledging the deep-rooted bitterness in Talon's words. The stables, once a haven for noble steeds, now bore witness to a different kind of struggle – an internal battle within the knights themselves.

"I get it, Talon. Life hasn't been kind to many of us," Bardmin began, choosing his words carefully. "But maybe, just maybe, honor is a light we carry within ourselves. It might not change the world, but it can change how we face it. Even in the darkest moments, holding onto something good, something honorable, might be the only way to keep our own humanity intact. It's not about the world remembering; it's about us remembering who we are, even when the world tries to strip that away."

Talon looked at him, and it seemed the anger and hate left his heart. "You are a good friend. You always surprise me with your unique kind of wisdom despite being an idiot."

Bardmin chuckled, a genuine smile breaking through the seriousness of their conversation. "Well, someone's got to bring a bit of idiocy to balance out all this heavy talk about honor and the world. We've got each other's backs, Talon, even when we don't see eye to eye on these things."

From the terrace above, King Thorian Malachi, the ruler of Biatus and its blessed land, cast his gaze downward.

"Draven, you old bastard, you're still as harsh as ever," the king chuckled

Draven, standing amidst the assembly of recruits, and continued with his stern instructions, his eyes unwavering.

"Now, after I've welcomed you all, turn your faces to the king and bow before him. Receive his blessing, and then report back to me with your training gear," Draven instructed.

The recruits, guided by Draven's no-nonsense demeanor, swiftly turned their attention to the king above. The solemnity of the moment was palpable, a ritualistic gesture that marked the beginning of their journey into the demanding world of knighthood.

"Your Grace, Prince Roderick is entering the training ring," announced Varian, the leader of the king's guards. In the arena, the prince stood alongside one of the elite knights, both preparing for their upcoming sparring match.

"Go easy on me this time, Raizer," the prince jestingly remarked.

"Sorry, my prince. I am only following His Majesty's orders," Raizer replied with a respectful tone.

"He's watching us. We wouldn't want to appear lacking in front of him."

Outside the arena, the commander of the patrols and the leader of the watch, known as "Zephyr the Ironfist," stood poised to initiate the fight.

"On my mark. Begin," the commander declared.

In an instant, both knights unsheathed their swords, their movements a blur of speed that dazzled the eye. The clash of steel echoed through the arena, a rapid exchange of blows that painted a tapestry of swift and glorious combat. The mesmerizing display of skill and technique unfolded with breathtaking speed, bringing a temporary halt to the other ongoing duels as all eyes turned to witness the spectacular dance of blades in this remarkable duel.

"They seem evenly matched," murmured the onlookers.

"Yes, in skill and technique, but not in power," someone countered.

"Pay closer attention, and you'll see the distinction."

"You're right. The prince is facing difficulties at the moment."

"And all of that without even activating their Pyroguard."

They continued for ten minutes, Raizer's speed gradually increasing. He moved with such agility that he seemed to appear from all angles, forcing Prince Roderick into a defensive retreat. Roderick's sword movements wavered until he could only hold a steadfast defensive stance. Raizer's pace escalated further, and Roderick found himself immobilized, the fear of losing an arm if he dared to counter.

The air crackled with tension, akin to a gathering storm. And in a heartbeat, the fight came to a halt, Raizer's sword poised at the prince's neck.

"How can they do that without ?" Bardmin wondered aloud.

"Their speed and power are damn strong," another guard added.

"Do you really think they didn't use it?" Talon retorted.

"What do you mean?" Bardmin asked, confusion evident on his face.

Just as he was about to explain, their captain's voice cut in. "Hoy, you two finished with the job?"

"Yes, sir, we did," Bardmin responded.

"Then why the hell are you still standing there? Go and get the damn horse food."

Back in the arena, the commander's voice broke through, "Take a five-minute break, and then we'll continue with the training. This time, you'll showcase your armors."

"I told you to go easy on me, man," Roderick quipped.

"I did until I saw the king glaring at me," Raizer responded.

"Damn it, he won't rest until he wipes me out."

"Don't talk like that. You're the heir to the throne. Do you even comprehend what that means?"

"Enlighten me."

"It means you bear the name Malachi, the same name as King Thorian, his father, and generations before them, tracing back to the legendary King Mesciosm Malachi. Your name carries weight and danger, my friend."

"Alright, alright, enough with the lecture. Let's just go wash up so I can get beaten again," Roderick said, his tone a mixture of resignation and humor.

As they headed to wash up, they crossed paths with Talon and Bardmin. Bardmin offered a bow upon seeing the prince, but Talon refrained. The prince noticed this, his gaze locking onto Talon's, but he didn't react. The commander was also present, observing the silent exchange.

"Man, what the hell?" Bardmin whispered.

Talon shrugged. "What?"

"Why didn't you bow?"

After the silent exchange, they proceeded to feed the horses. Soon, the prince and Raizer returned, geared up for the next phase of training.

"Now, you two, prepare your armor," Zephyr commanded.

They stood facing each other. The prince summoned his armor – greaves, cuisses, gauntlets, and cuirass. "Raizer, I want you to form the same configuration as the prince," the commander instructed.

Standing not far away, Talon and Bardmin observed the ongoing training.

"Now, as you two know, there are three stages of enveloping," the commander explained. "The first stage is armor forming (Pyroguard), the second stage is the internal Pyroguard or what we call it (iron soul), and the third stage is the absolute control or the crafting stage."

"Normally, we would begin with Pyroguard. However, as the king instructed, we're beginning with the second stage, and that's just the prince."

"Hah, lucky me," the prince said sarcastically.

"Now you will fight with Raizer until your armor fades or you collapse," the commander declared.

"Come on!" Roderick exclaimed, his tone determined.

Bardmin, not fully understanding the commander's instructions, turned to Talon for clarification.

"In normal situations, you begin with forming your armor using your soul and blood, and the armor becomes visible," Talon explained. "But in the prince's situation, he began with the second stage (iron soul). This stage still uses your blood and soul powers, but internally. You form the armor inside your body."

"I see," Bardmin said, beginning to grasp the concept.

"That's why the fight was so powerful. It concentrated the armor's power inside the body," Talon continued.

Bardmin nodded slowly. "So, the energy that you would normally need to maintain the external armor is used to enhance your physical abilities, like speed and strength, while still maintaining your energy?"

Talon smiled, pleased that Bardmin had caught on. "Exactly."

"What about the third stage?" Bardmin asked, intrigued.

Talon explained, "The third stage is the hardest one. It's the stage of crafting. Instead of forming armor, you can create anything you want, like a shield or a sword, etc. Only the elite of elites can use it. Even Raizer still can't do it."

"How did you know all of that?"

"Get your head out of the horse dung, and maybe you'll pick up a thing or two," Talon remarked "We stuck dealing with this stench, might as well use the time to learn something."

"Wise guy," Bardmin responded with a laugh.

Back in the arena, Raizer and Roderick engaged in combat, their movements deliberate and slower than before. Zephyr's voice resonated in Roderick's mind, guiding him, "It's normal to feel a bit sluggish. The primary purpose of the armor is to shield you."

Roderick concentrated on Zephyr's counsel. "To progress to the third stage, I need to summon the complete armor," he whispered to himself.

Zephyr's voice persisted, "I want both of you to go all out, utilizing your abilities and elemental powers to the fullest."

Tapping into his elemental prowess, Roderick harnessed the might of fire and earth. Flames erupted beneath his feet, creating a fiery circle intertwined with swirling dirt. Meanwhile, Raizer breathed a cold breeze onto his sword, transforming it into an icy blade. Their powers stood in perfect contrast, each element acting as the Achilles' heel of the other.

They faced each other, intense gazes locked, moving slowly in circles. Anticipation hung in the air as they awaited the commander's signal to commence the next phase of their training.

"Begin!" Zephyr's command reverberated, and the arena burst into life with the collision of elements and the resonating power of their abilities.