In The Pit

The Gunslinger immediately puts his hands in the air, showing them to Marshall as he tries to explain himself. Virgil and I do the same, not wanting to be on the wrong end of the violence we just bore witness to. Those very hands placed on that desk could kill all three of us before we even draw our weapons. I have no doubt about that.

"I didn't kill Kai. I swear by the Devil. It was a demon, Aniwye."

Johnny doesn't tell the whole story, but Marshall takes the answer with his own question. The old man's brow raises, but his hands slide back several inches as if his anger is quelling itself.

"Aniwye? The Grasping Mind? What does she have to do with Kai? The information from Eli says that only you were there at his death after breaking into his abode and killing his wife."

The man next to me grimaces, his face twisting as he tries not to make enemies with the man he wants to ally with. We thought he might get questioned for killing Kai's wife, but not Kai himself.

"I... didn't kill her either. I sought out her help to find the demon that was nearby. I knew it was coming to kill Kai, and I wanted to find her hiding place before she did so. I couldn't ask Kai because I didn't know where he was out hunting in the swamps. Aniwye killed them both with her powerful mind. I've sure you've heard or seen of her prowess. But I did not want, attempt, or join the killing of either."

Marshall nods, his head bobbing as he slides back to his seat. His eyes flicker behind us as a woman steps into the room. The woman with the Lawman Sigil!

She places a sheet of paper on the table as she whispers into Marshall's ear. Using Echo, focusing my senses intently just in case it is bad news, I listen to her words. But even with the skill enhancing my ears to the point of locating a room within a massive spire, I can barely hear her voice, something partially blocking it.

"No lies. Total truth. It could be a bit skewed, but that last bit was heartfelt. Your thoughts are likely true, sir."

Marshall takes the paper from her without reacting and puts it on his desk. But I can't copy his stalwartness and breathe a sigh of relief, sinking deeply into my chair as my body aches.

"Thank you, Millie. Go tell Ash that he can bury Rufus. We'll have a funeral for him and the other fallen before night falls. I'll be carving onto the Stele myself."

Millie, the commander from the battlements, leaves swiftly, her uniform jostling from her quick movement. All she departs with is a salute and a nod before closing the door behind her. Once she's gone, Marshall's eyes turn to Johnny, his tone far more lenient.

"Very well. I believe you. I have, in fact, met Anwiye. Even battled her a few times. One of the few demons more wanting to talk than to fight. But we'll have to deal with Aniwye some other time. And as much as I would like to meet these two, can they leave? I have some critical things to discuss."

My mind cycles as I realize Virgil and I were only here in case he needed to kill us. But now that he doesn't, he wants us out. Thankfully, though, Johnny stands up for us both.

"With respect, Marshall, these two can hear anything you must tell me. I keep my friends close, and they are trustworthy. Very."

The Wall's eyes squint, his focus lingering on Virgil momentarily before descending onto me.

"If you say so. I'll be the judge, however. What is your name, boy?"

I answer quickly with my full name, hiding nothing from this figure wafting off enough Ether to kill me should he go to strike me. I'd rather be bluntly honest than conceal a single thing from him.

"Wyatt. Wyatt Graves, sir. Son of Killian Graves."

Bearing it all for to see, or I suppose to hear, is odd, but the raise of the eyebrow from Marshall makes me squirm in pride.

"Really? I like your honesty. Most of your family hide it until they are Angels. How old are you, boy? Twenty? Twenty-one? I can't imagine Killian hiding you for any longer than that."

I breathe a sigh of relief as I made the right choice. Then, shaking my head, I go to answer before remembering what day it is this morning.

"Six-no, Seventeen. It's June 18th, right?"

Marshall nods as his eyes physically widen, the shock evident. As he waves his head back in forth at me, I can't help but feel a twinge of grief at the idea that it's my birthday. Usually, I'd spend the day with Ma... not anymore.

"It is. My... my... You are something special, boy. When did you get your first Sigil? Killian force it onto you early? I know you Graves can handle it as early as eight, but still."

I shake my head, keeping everything as truthful as possible. Even then, my eyes widen at the information. I was not aware we were so different. Most people can only get Sigils past puberty. But... eight? That early? Wow... why did Aniwye... there must have been a reason. Did she hold me until something happened in the world? An event? I don't know. I'll have to worry about it later.

"No, sir. I haven't ever met my father. My Ma raised me until she passed around November... from there, I was sent to meet Edmund Dudley, and he died protecting me. I've been running myself ragged trying to survive, though. But no. My father didn't give me a Sigil."

Marshall stands from his desk, unable to keep looking at me. His tight uniform doesn't shift even a bit from his movement. Somehow, despite all that fighting, his clothes are spotless. After a short sigh, his attention shifts to Virgil.

"And what about you, lad? Are you from the Harveys or something? Their little experiment?"

Virgil chuckles softly as he replies negatively.

"No. I have no summary quite like that. I used to be Damned and achieved my freedom. I'd say I'm good at fighting, but it's hard to keep up with these two next to me."

Laughing from his gut, Marshall turns and stares from the only window I've seen since entering the inside of the fortress.

"TA free Damned? Haha... I wonder what was in Eli's mind on that one. Well then, tell me, Johnny. Why have you come here? Did you come here to die with me? Or is there another reason? I heard from Tomas you have many with you, each powerful in their own rights, but we know what truly matters."

Johnny pipes up, explaining the idea he told me so long ago as he starts from the beginning. He's just a blunt as I was, not wasting moments on stupid things.

"I came here for two reasons, Marshall, and I'll be candid. I know you're getting old, and the forces grinding you down are expanding. Soon, even you will break. So, I've come to aid you, provide you help in the defense. I have many keen to join you, and their abilities will be of noteworthy help. I'd say four of which have the strength of a Colonel at the very least; Bonfire, a man of flames; Abraham, who can turn nightmares real; Primrose, a venomous woman; and Virgil is the finest damn Nightowl I've ever met, a born assassin if you need."

Marshall takes the information in stride. He steps around the room, his hands behind his back as he follows along with Johnny's words. And the gunslinger pauses shortly to tap my shoulder.

"And in return for our help, I hoped you could train this kid here. He only had a week at most of the training with Edmund before the great teacher died. And none of us are teachers, most learning from the Hunter academies or through years of experience. But... Wyatt doesn't have that time."

The Unyielding Wall blinks as he gazes at me, his pupils boring deep into my body as if searching for something.

"I can do that. Boy, what is your Absolution? I know you have one. I can feel it. I want to hear its name."

His tone is odd, part respect and part demand. Unlike before, he doesn't gaze at me like a threat or a child. He looks me in the eye without dismissal. I answer him all the same.

"The Struggler-"

His eyes light up, a smile stretching upon his mouth, but I'm not finished.

"-and the Martyr."

The second drop holds the air still with Marshall's eyes narrowing. A tense moment carries on before the man grabs his stomach and laughs. A rumbling chuckle breaks through the room, echoing beyond the closed door. The man slides backward in his joy, lightly slapping his hand against the windowsill.

"Wonderful. Let's get to it, boy."

Marshall walks to the door, tightening his outfit. Virgil, Johnny, and I merely sit, bewildered. But the man turns back as he opens the door, waving his hand for us.

"Well, come on. This is what you came here for, right? I ain't got much time. Why waste what we have?"

Immediately, I stand, pushing myself to my feet as I follow him out the door.

*************

I dwell twenty paces from Marshall upon a sunken pit of sand behind the main fortress, which the man uses to train his men, Tomas, and himself. To my side is Johnny as he lounges and naps on a chair. The seat beside him is absent; Virgil is out to retrieve the others while we make the most of what time the old man has left. Virgil needs the rest less than Johnny, with his Sigil giving him ample sleep with a scant few hours per week, so he is going instead.

Even as I stand across from Marshall, I can see it. His shoulders begin to sag, and his back sinks as he speaks. The man's Ether is waning from what he used earlier, the amount lingering in his body for hours after the initial use without harming him. What a skill. A small amount of effort and the Ether lasts for hours. It's leagues above my Steam Strand, seemingly an entirely different substance. But as it withers, his age shows.

"This is the Pit. No one else should come by at this time, for my men should be sleeping, barring the Watchmen around the walls. So, feel no worry about your secrets being exposed, young Graves. I am here to help. But I cannot without knowing where you lack."

Marshall gives me a short introduction before moving to the actual part.

"So, I want you to attack me. Do everything you can to kill me. Hold nothing back. From there, I can give you aid. Perhaps even teach you a few skills you are compatible with along the way."

Unsure if I want to attack him, I try to dissuade him. Can't we do something else? I thought I was past this part.

"You sure? I don't want to hurt you. I feel bad just thinking about attacking you."

Marshall rears his head at my response, laughing at the midday sun. He lets the laughter run its course before he raises a fist toward me. He seems oddly jovial for such a renowned figure. I also thought he'd be... more serious. Half I've seen him speak outside of fighting has been him laughing. But, on a dime, that demeanor changes, and I feel the air shift with his words.

"Fear not you kill me, Wyatt. Fear you may be killed."

The moment he stops speaking, a wave of Ether fills my vision, a veritable heatwave of nothing but a pure adulterated force of will. I can feel sharp knives slide against my skin without any other effect than to draw my attention to it. Wondering what it is supposed to do, I glance over to Johnny and see his head beading in sweat as he awakes from his slumber.

Again, Marshall calls me to action, this time with a warning.

"Now, come! Or I will. You wanted this, remember?"

Sighing, I heft Reckless and hold it before me, and Marshall immediately comments on it. He doesn't wait a single moment before dissecting my life.

"That blade is much too big for you. It is nothing but a hunk of steel, regardless of its Sigil. Only a man three or four feet taller than you should wield it. It looks almost comical on you."

I twist my head as I smile a bit. He hasn't seen it in action. Yet.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

However, the old man chuckles softly at my words, so I set to prove him wrong. Ether swirls through my body as I prepare my skills. He wants my all, so I'll give him my all. Release fills my arm with strength as a gasp of air fills my body with Ether. A Daydream comes into being, disregarding my smell and ears to focus on my body. I need to see him, for he is far too fast.

Then, I take a step, Strugglers Defiance joining Strugglers Gasp in weakening my chains as I prepare to fight. Ether then flows into Reckless, the warm energy of the skill saturating me with Vigor. And finally, I create a bow of Ether in my feet, both of them and my hand.

With the next step, I vanish, moving almost instantly toward him as I immediately follow up with another Arbalest, and within a fraction of a second from my first act, I swing Reckless downward at the old man.

The air screams in horror as the blade bears down onto him, Whetting sharpening the edge mid-swing. I can feel the force put into this one swing. It can cut anything, the momentum unstoppable.

Yet, the moment before impact, my vision goes white, and the next thing I see is my blade in the wall beside me. Looking at Marshall, I see his hand smoking from the impact, the open palm raised on the other side of his body as if he slapped it. Then, my arm hurts, and I stumble backward as my whole body is suffused with a soreness. What? Just? Happened?

In awe, I see the man raise both his arms as he cracks his knuckles. The noise is loud and clear, enunciating his words even more piercing.

"You are no swordsman. You are a brawler, just as I am. I see the Colt on your hip, and that is the limit of your dependence on weapons. Put that skill you had on the blade on your hand. Our flesh is always best at conducting Ether. Some people do not have the gift, but you are a Graves. You do. Try having it oscillate, moving between finger to finger."

With a shaking hand, the Bloody Palm groaning from the recent impact, I push Ether toward the Bloody Palm, copying Whetting onto my flesh. I've done this before, it's nothing new, but the oscillation part is. I feel the substance coat my hand and compel it further from simply braiding the Ether to turning it gaseous to increase its speed. And as I do as he says, I shift the Ether, attempting to vibrate it. The Unyielding Wall guides me with a word here or there as I practice.

Half an hour later, a low whine comes from my hand, the Ether slicing into the standing air.

"Good, you're a fast learner. Now, try again. You'll be faster without that heavy weight on you."

Forming Arbalests in my feet again, I prepare to dart at him, but all the Ether I'm controlling at once is already giving me a headache. The foundation of my Single Threaded Ether is reaching its limit, even with Ironheart to help spread my focus.

Damn it! A bit more! Straining myself with gritted teeth, I raise my Honed palm, the trenchant flesh seemingly more adept at cutting than Reckless. I feel a slight pang of guilt at dropping the weapon like that, but it's not living or thinking like Lily. I shouldn't get attached.

I lower my stance, preparing to rush at him. Then, bursting forward again with both Arbalests, I dart next to Marshall as I drop to all 'fours' and use my hand to shuttle past him with the movement skill. But as I hurtle through the air, I feel a force in my chest as my world rapidly spins. Agony splits my body in half as reality itself shifts.

Instantly, my eyes tear up and fill with water as I slam into something, the force knocking all the air out of my lungs. I clear my vision with many blinks as I feel my back slide down the sandy wall of the pit, my whole body groaning in pain. Several of my skills falter from the shock, and Daydream is one of them. I hear Marshall taking steps toward me. I take a coughing and wheezing breath as he moves, not even realizing he forced the Ether from my lungs.

"Again, nice try. But you're too reliant on those skills of yours. Sure, they might help, but a foundation is more important. Rushing at me like an animal will only get you killed. You are stepping into a world where all are old, experienced, and trained. That skill you've displayed is the worst I've ever seen at the 5th Sigil. Let's do this again. No skills other than things that strictly make you faster or stronger. That one reminds me of Shiver, but still, don't use it yet. Edmund's probably turning in his grave seeing your ineptitude."

His words invoke a primal anger, the kind that only rises when someone speaks of those who died for me or because of me. Punching the sand, I force myself to stand as I wobble. I'm not bleeding anywhere other than what happened in the battle earlier, but I'm sore all over.

Ether roars to life again as I dart toward him, another gasp filling me with Ether.

My body moves with purpose as I reach him. But I don't strike immediately. I watch him momentarily as he does the same to me, gauging his reaction. Finally, I take the chance, diving in as I swing my fist toward him, and this time he simply ducks under the strike, leaving one of his own upon my chest. And as he does so, he sweeps for my legs.

Almost gagging from trying to keep the air in my lungs, I stumble backward as I try to regain my composure, only dodging the kick by luck, but Marshall follows, hellbent on beating me. I raise my arm and try to retaliate as he charges me, but again, he counters in a way I'm not expecting, delivering a punch to my gut directly under my swing by lowering his body to the ground.

Again, I attack, trying to rebalance the battle, and he counters. All he does is counter as we fight, leaving the initiative for me as I get my ass kicked.

With each blow, my body feels the impact, the pain reverberating through my muscles and bones. Every second, the soreness in my body grows, but Lily flows some of that coolness to keep me standing. It hurts to say, but I'm kind of glad so many died with how much I hurt right now. It'd be way worse otherwise. I fight to stay on my feet, to withstand the relentless assault. Sweat drips from my brow, mixing with the sand that clings to my skin. After minutes, spurts of blood join from my stitches opening, yet Marshall does not stop pressing me, demanding I fight back.

"Come on, kid! More! Your daddy or mommy never beat you like this!?"

His words make me fight harder, attempting to hit him back. But despite my best efforts, my teacher's speed is unmatched. He anticipates my every move, effortlessly countering my attacks with swift precision. His strikes land with bone-crushing force, leaving me gasping for air, my body aching and bruised.

At first, it seems he is torturing me, merely doing this to deliver suffering, but I quickly disregard that fact as I realize that with every counter, he is showing me a way to do the same and a better strike.

Every punch, kick, slam, takedown, and tackle delivered by Marshall carries with it a lesson. Each blow teaches me patience, calmness, and perseverance. I absorb these lessons even as I stumble and fall. I don't benefit from every one instantly, but I try to imprint them permanently. If I make a mistake once, I'm unlikely to repeat it. Twice? Never again unless forced. Thrice? I figure out a way not to even when he endeavors to make me. Though he always has some other rebuttal with his fists, legs, knees, elbows, or head available.

As the fight draws to a close, my body battered and bruised, I spit out blood, leveraging my arm with my body to lift it back up. Marshall is a living totem of strength, skill, and mastery. Despite the pain, I just want to land one hit. The sun has made good progress across the sky, and yet, I still have not landed one blow. Soon, he'll have to attend that funeral.

But I still stand even after hours of combat. My Strugglers Gasp ended with my last one a while ago. Now, I use only Strugglers Defiance and Hone to safeguard and enhance my body. The two are not taxing on me due to the combination of gaseous Ether for one and the oldness of the other. Breakneck isn't as efficient as the other two, and speed isn't as useful right now. Durability is.

And as I swing at Marshall one last time, I know I am almost out of steam. Not much remains in my body, every muscle screaming with soreness. Yet, I don't want to lose. And as I see his body react to mine, going for a counter, I instantly force Ether into my mind, activating my skill from my 5th Sigil. Liberation. The act cracks my mind with pain, but I hold on.

Time slows to a crawl as I stare at Marshall, his form sweating and his wrinkles showing. The Ether in his body is almost out, just like mine, the old man refusing to replenish his stores. According to him, the less he uses, the longer his body will last.

This is my chance. My only chance. I need to find the right move—the perfect one to retaliate his counter with. No matter how long it might take me.