"He's starting to move…"
"I'm not dying here…"
"Get into formation…"
"That won't be necessary. I'll take it from here."
The muffled voices fell silent at the last statement. Almost immediately, several footsteps followed—boots marching on the ground, echoing through wherever we currently were. Slowly, the echoing subsided until it became a distant clangor.
I moved, and lightning-like pain flared through my back, making me stop instantly.
"Open your eyes," the voice commanded. I obeyed.
My vision was blurry. I could barely make out a tall figure in front of me, vertical lines separating us. I shook my head and opened my mouth. I tried to form words, but only maunder escaped.
"This won't do," the male voice muttered before leaving my field of view. I shut my eyes, unable to keep them open any longer. As I waited, I wondered what he was preparing for me. Who was he? Where was I? What was going on? These questions were my top priority—second only to the pain that seethed from my back and now spread through my body.
Footsteps approached. I opened my eyes again. The man held out his hand, opened my mouth, and poured a warm red liquid into it.
"Swallow," he instructed.
I didn't comply, and he struck my shoulder. The pain made me choke on the liquid, forcing me to swallow reflexively.
Within seconds, the pain subsided, and my vision gradually cleared.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice hoarse from lack of use.
I could finally see him clearly. He was tall, with fiery red hair, his brown eyes a stark contrast. His hands were lined with extremely complex tattoos. He wore sleeveless clothing that was just barely formal, topped off with rectangular glasses.
"I ask the questions," he said dismissively.
I was about to speak again when I noticed my surroundings. I was in a prison cell. The humid air kept my mind cool. The smell of mildew filled my nose—damp clothes in a dark room. Salt also lingered in the air, overpowered by the sour stench. I noticed the rapier was still in my hand. I looked at the man cautiously. His eyes lingered on the blade, and then he cleared his throat.
"You stole a realm key. A very grievous offense," he said, adjusting his glasses as they caught the light.
Tristan! The memory struck me. I scanned the cell—but he was nowhere in sight.
"Before I make my decision, I have a few quest—"
"Where's Tristan?" I cut in, anger lacing my voice.
"The elixir sped up your recovery. I recommend you—"
"Answer me," I interrupted again, my thoughts fractured by rage. I clenched the rapier tightly and recalled the feeling from Altera's castle… nothing happened. This man had taken Tristan, and I couldn't do a damn thing.
"Where did you get that?" he asked, eyeing the blade.
I didn't respond. I wouldn't.
"Where is he?" I asked again, my voice trembling with impatience.
The man rolled his eyes and ruffled his hair.
"Ugh, this façade is too annoying to keep up. Your friend's in another cell. He kept ranting about how my outfit didn't make sense and how my fashion sense didn't add up," he finally replied.
"What…" was all I could say after his sudden tone shift.
"Exactly what I said. This sleeveless suit showcases the vaelstrom on my arms," he gestured. A dim flame jumped from his left hand to his right. "The flames match my hair color exactly, don't they? Did I mention my hair's naturally red? Look at these markings—my achievements. He wants me to hide my achievements!"
He went on and on. I began wondering who was worse between him and Tristan.
I tuned him out and inspected the cell. A simple black bed sat in the farthest corner. The space itself was no more than six square meters, with a tiny window above. Through it, the sound of splashing waves was apparent. I moved closer. We were surrounded by water. In the distance, I could make out a shape—maybe land, or maybe just my imagination. Either way, escape seemed impossible.
"Did you hear anything I just said?" the man asked, straightening his hair.
"You stole a realm key. The minimum punishment is four years—being extremely generous. That aside, I have some questions of my own," he continued, his face hardening. I couldn't tell if it was an act.
Then, his arms flared with orange light and his hair stood on end. He's acting, I thought, just before he reached into the cell and grabbed my rapier.
I flinched, and so did he.
The fire gradually lost its orange hue, shifting to blue. I watched silver specs from my rapier cling to his arm, forming ice crystals—only to be burned away by the now-bright blue flames. He shook off the last of them, then looked at me with a questioning stare.
"How?" he asked. I didn't respond. I couldn't. I was just as confused as he was.
He seemed to sense this and relaxed slightly.
"I'll ask again. Where did you get that weapon?"
I couldn't tell him. Or rather—I wouldn't. I'd made a promise to the mage—Altera.
Strange, how hatred can turn into loyalty in quiet moments. I once wanted nothing more than to see her fall—and now I guarded her secret like it was my own.
I didn't know what was happening to me or Tristan, but I was sure she was the catalyst—or even the force—behind it all. I still wasn't certain whether I could use magic or not, but I had to be careful with whatever explanation I gave. There were many ways a rapier like this could be crafted.
I sifted through the possibilities in my mind, then looked closely at the weapon again. It appeared to be made of silver—but in reality, it was ice.
This was an obvious fact I had failed to consider. Like the earthen sword Tristan had temporarily crafted, this was similar. This creation was only possible thanks to what were once suspected—now confirmed—abilities of mine. I was now sure that Altera must have done something.
Why did she give me her powers in her dying moments? Who was the "her" I reminded her of? Most of all, why did she keep saying my origins were unknown? How much did she already know about me? About Tristan? About everything? Why was she pursued by the gods? I thought I knew much, but there were too many questions and too few answers.
"Are you ready to answer?" an annoyed voice said, bringing me back to reality.
"It was crafted," I responded, giving as little information as possible.
"That's not what I'm asking." A fireball flickered into existence before him, and he continued, "I don't normally employ such means, so I'll ask again and you'll answer completely. Where did you—"
"I made it," I interrupted, my body reacting in fear of what was to come.
In truth, I wasn't sure how it came to be, but that was all I could provide.
"Interesting, how did you—"
"It took years, forming, forging. I was honestly surprised when it turned out like this."
"You've developed quite the habit of interrupting," he muttered, conjuring a stool of fire before sitting down. "I expect something of this manner would be a breeze for you then," he gestured to the stool.
"Of course, but I am still exhausted from…" I paused, knowing where I was heading.
"The realm," he finished. "Based on the key's size, we classified it as Rank Five. Could've been wrong, though—we never stepped inside. I'm still baffled how two slum boys managed not just to steal but to explore the realm and come out unharmed."
While I thought of what to say, he continued.
"Let me now forget your triumphant entry when you exited the realm, froze the whole area solid, and killed some therions too."
I barely managed to hide the shock on my face. At the time, I had believed one of our inquisitors had done that. This fact would make any more questions difficult to answer. I could also assume they were questioning Tristan as well, comparing our answers.
I sat on the floor, folding my legs. "That was… unexpected," was all I could manage. Giving much information on what I didn't know would be troublesome. I had to find a way to steer his questions in another direction.
He pulled a paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and began to read aloud.
"Ice prince of immense power. Snow-white hair and metallic silver eyes. His deep blue clothes, glistening like the night stars. Sword in hand to fend off evil, protecting us from therions waiting toattack…" He stopped reading, squeezed the report, and burnt it to nothing.
"I think the report has to be reviewed," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
He partially stretched his arm, and a key of fire formed within. He inserted it into my cell door and with a sound like wind on fire, it opened—the bars retracting into the ground and ceiling.
"Come with me," he said and began walking out of the gray prison room. I followed, no other reasonable option available.
What could have come over him suddenly to release me? I put the question aside; right now, I needed to pay attention to my surroundings.
We passed several people on our way. They all had strange marks on their bodies—some on their hands, others on their legs. Some had them on their chests too—women included—wearing just enough to leave little to the imagination. They wielded weapons of every kind: swords, maces, axes, machetes, bows and arrows, spears, shields, staffs—the list went on.
The swordsmen in particular eyed my weapon in passing. Though they could just have been wondering how someone of my social status ended up with such an eye-catching tool. They all had one thing in common, though: they greeted the man before passing. Even those who eyed me relaxed their faces when they noticed I was with him…and not bidden, I added.
Examining my clothes, I wondered what the hell the man's report described. "Deep blue clothes, glistening like the night stars"—my current green rags were anything but that. They weren't originally this color, and I don't want to remember what made them so.
The report's description of me was miles off. Then again, it could be the power I was given that made me so. The description matched Altera exactly—clang.
"Ouch," I said, rubbing the spot where my head had just hit the wall.
"You keep dazing off. Pay attention to where you're going," the man said before making a quick left turn.
The area was surprisingly bright for a place with no sunlight. Looking at the ceiling, which was quite high, I saw lights lining its length and perimeter. The strange glowing objects were also on the ground, though at sparse intervals.
We had been walking for quite some time and had passed several rooms with people either training or sparring.
"We'll soon be there. The combat wing is one of the larger ones," Fire-Head—the name I'd just settled on—said suddenly.
If this was the combat wing, why was there a prison? I concluded he was lying.
"The room you were held in was just for detention. The real interrogation room is… less pleasing," he added, almost like he was reading my thoughts.
Anything described as pleasing compared to that detention room was probably on the level of the slums or lower—if even possible. We took another left turn, then went down a flight of stairs. We were now in a hallway, with the sun's natural light as the only source of illumination. The cool sea breeze wiped across my face, the smell of mildew still lingering faintly.
Stepping out, the sun's warm rays were the first to welcome me. Several people were scattered across this arena-like space. It was an extremely massive field of sand. In the distance was the edge of the field, which I assumed led to a steep drop into the water. Some meters away, fire and water collided, the heat from the resultant steam even reaching us. As I looked on in awe, the air was suddenly knocked out of my lungs.
Staggering, I fell to my knees, my fingers reflexively gripping the sand in search of something to hold onto. Looking ahead, I saw two women sparring. Most eyes were on them—the former fight already over. One moved with pure grace while the other staggered slightly here and there. Gravity manipulation. That was the only explanation. The woman quickly took the offensive, bombarding her opponent with blows in rapid succession.
Her opponent seemed to glide over some blows; she probably had wind magic. Others nearby began falling to the ground from the pressure, those standing barely managing to hold on. Fire-Head didn't seem fazed though; he watched them with visible interest, his eyes focused on the wind magic user.
"Quite interesting. Alice seems to be improving. Too bad we aren't here to watch."
He clapped his hands and the temperature began increasing rapidly. In a few seconds, the heat became visible as slight distortions in my vision. I only just noticed that the immense pressure holding me down had been released. Everyone around me was soaking with sweat, some falling to the ground, others trying and failing to use their magic to even things out.
The dark-skinned gravity woman breathed heavily as she approached us but was more composed than the others. Her long-haired opponent stood still, staggering in place. I wasn't as affected as the others, though the air was still scorching nonetheless.
"Don't you think you've shown off enough, Xenon?!" the gravity woman called from a distance.
"That's my line," Fire-Head—Xenon—replied as the temperature began dropping.
"Come with me," he said, leading me to the center of the field.
The gravity woman was now right next to Fire-Head—Xenon.
"What's with the dramatic entrance?" she said, her eyes briefly lingering on me. She had light brown skin and wore skin-tight leather clothing.
Her shirt was split at the center, exposing her chest which was lined with complex tattoos. Her jet-black, medium-length hair barely turned down, and her void-black eyes now flicked to me more frequently as she spoke.
"Who's the kid?" she eyed me as she asked.
"A thief with potential," he responded with a grin.
If stealing a realm key was a grave offense, why was I held in the combat zone detention center? I thought, as my reason for being here slowly became clearer. "Everyone, space out! Alice, to me!" the gravity woman ordered as the men and women present moved a great distance from Xenon and me to a viewing area I hadn't seen earlier.
"What's going on?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
He stretched out his hand and a sword of fire flared to life within.
"A friendly spar."