Chapter 11 - Prime Mancer II
Beans splattered across the cracked floorboards, the sudden noise shattering the oppressive silence and sending shockwaves through my mind. My heart raced, each thud echoing in the still room.
The myths of the Prime Mancer didn't end with his death. Despite the Church's repeated denials and branding of such beliefs as heresy, certain secular factions within the Masse Religion insisted there was more to the tale.
According to legend, the Prime Mancer was destined not only to free the continent from war and death but also to lead us into a new era. A New Frontier.
The legends spoke of a world beyond a vast sea, brimming with untapped resources, diverse cultures, and advanced technology. A world beyond the Wall, free from the Church's persecution and the Mistomancers' oppression.
If such a tale were true...
I placed my trembling hands atop my head, overwhelmed by the possibility. A new world... Could it be real?
But even if the myths were accurate, a swirling, living wall of mist encircled the continent, making escape impossible. This was our hell, an unending cycle of suffering and despair. The Prime Mancer was also dead—unless...
The wooden door ahead creaked as it opened, the soft sound of footsteps slicing through the room's stillness.
My muscles tensed, my breath caught in my throat, bracing for the worst.
I gripped the smooth handle of my spear behind me, knowing that no matter how futile it seemed, I would fight back.
Fear and determination warred within me, each heartbeat a reminder of my fragile mortality.
"Have you eaten?" Otto's voice, gentle yet firm, broke the tension. His fused-shut eyes were directed toward the back wall. "Sorry for the unexpected leave; I had... other obligations."
Relief and confusion washed over me as I released my death-grip and scrambled to clean up the spilled beans, my movements frantic and unsteady. I prayed his steps would slow, my mind racing with worry and doubt.
"It is quite rude to waste food, you know," he said, his robes rippling as he knelt beside me. "Let me help."
His abrupt kindness startled me, causing me to instinctively retreat, crashing into the weapons behind me. A single cup of tea hadn't built trust, and my heart pounded with suspicion and fear.
He chuckled as he carefully placed each bean back in the bowl. "I can see why they chose you…"
Chosen? For what? My mind buzzed with questions, each one more urgent than the last.
"Quite the affinity," he continued, the beans snapping as they hit the bowl. "Then again, you are a speaker."
A speaker? The term hung in the air, heavy with meaning I couldn't grasp.
I wanted to ask him, but my disability held me back, frustration and helplessness bubbling within me. My tongue felt heavy, my words trapped in a prison of silence.
After a long silence filled only by the sound of beans being collected, Otto crossed his legs and sighed deeply, setting down the chained metal balls he carried.
"It is understandable that you may be confused now, but in time, you will come to understand. According to our captors, you were rescued from death in the Theater of Fogmoor. Is that correct?"
I nodded. The memories of battle flooded my mind. After Brittanica declared war on nearly every nation on the continent, it found itself in a five-front war. Despite being the most powerful nation, its troops were still human, and humans die.
To curb the loss of essential personnel, they enlisted mercenaries—'meat shields'—often foreigners. In exchange, Brittanica promised gold and exemption from persecution.
The Southern Front wasn't dangerous because of the quality of troops but their sheer numbers. What better place to put cannon fodder?
"Based on our last bout, I can see how you survived this long," Otto said with a slight grin. "For now, you will sleep here, and we will start training tomorrow."
The visionless elder rose with fluid grace and exited the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I inspected my surroundings—while the room was humble, it was a far cry from the dilapidated barracks I was used to. The rough paper walls seemed almost comforting in their solidity.
The moment my head touched the wooden floor, a wave of exhaustion washed over me.
My body ached, and my mind buzzed with unanswered questions, but the promise of sleep was too strong to resist. Within seconds, I was pulled into a deep, well-needed slumber.
Why is it hot?
A fiery brand seared my soles, a jolt of agony that shattered the tranquility of sleep. Panic, raw and immediate, clawed its way into consciousness.
Were we being attacked? Had the Southerns broken the overnight ceasefire?
Ingrained memories of war sent my adrenaline into overdrive—though my mind was held captive by the Church, my body was on the battlefield.
I need to fight.
Adrenaline exploded, muscles contracted, and veins tensed. The nerves in my soles were ablaze from an unknown fire, causing my feet to instinctively kick up.
A tight grasp caught my kick mid-air. Using the suspended leg as an axis, I spun off to the side, snatching a spear from the ground in the process.
I can't give the enemy time...
Legs jerked backward as I lunged forward, spear in hand. Just like my feet before, the assailant caught the spear.
Noticing his hands were occupied, I bent my knee and prepared to sweep the opponent's legs out from under them.
But then it stopped, as if faced with the Mist Wall itself. My sweep was rendered ineffective by an invisible barrier.
The same grasp formed around my foot once more, this time sending me hurling across the room.
A loud bang reverberated as debris from the paper wall fell around me. A searing, relentless ache twisted through my lower back, each movement sending sharp, electric jolts of agony up my spine.
Damn it, I can't stand.
"You are quite the fighter," the stern voice of someone familiar interrupted the fight. "But we have some work to do, I see."
The metallic taste of blood invaded my mouth as my eyes dilated, trying to identify the attacker in the dim light.
Is that Otto?
I gritted my teeth in animosity—this barbaric coward had just bested me twice.
"Well... you will have many more tries," he said while brushing dirt from his robe—holding a torch in his other hand, "Follow me into the courtyard."
"Your training has already begun..."