6th Jan 933 - Seventh Epoch
The last vestiges of pre-dawn indigo bled from the sky, surrendering with reluctance to the encroaching fingers of day. Below, the barracks lay shrouded in a cloak of shadow, yet the training grounds pulsed with a life starkly their own. A relentless, rhythmic clang of steel striking scarred wood echoed, a brutal symphony played against the lingering quiet of the dying night.
Across the hard-packed earth, a tall figure crunched, his worn boots carrying him towards the yard's epicenter. There, a solitary youth moved, a whirlwind of focused fury. His practice blade became a silvered dance, each strike a blur against the battered training dummy, etching new wounds into its scarred tapestry.
"Henry," the newcomer's voice rumbled, a familiar concoction of weary authority and dry amusement. "For pity's sake, grant the poor thing a reprieve. It appears moments from begging for mercy."
Henry grunted, his rhythm unbroken, breath misting in the chill air. Sweat plastered dark hair to his brow, yet a flicker of pride touched his intense features. "Morning, Captain. It yielded sooner today. Progress." He finally lowered his blade, but only slightly. "Just forty more strikes."
A challenge gleamed in the Captain's eyes. "Fancy a proper spar? Shake off the last dregs of slumber?"
"Gladly." Fierce anticipation, a spark of untamed energy, lit Henry's own eyes. "Fifteen minutes. Then the world." He completed his drill, the final strikes delivered with punishing force. Immediately after, he collapsed, chest heaving, lungs burning.
Perspiration slicked his body, but his recovery was unnervingly swift. Within moments, his breathing evened, and a faint, ethereal steam curled from his skin, a subtle testament to the strange energies coiled deep within him.
Captain Jacobs watched, a man constructed like a weathered oak, solid and enduring. Time and countless trials had carved his rough-hewn features, yet his eyes held the sharp, intelligent glint of a honed axe. Beneath a gruff exterior, a sardonic wit often lurked. He waited, an unspoken ritual, precisely fifteen minutes elapsing before he hefted a heavy iron practice sword and stepped onto the grounds.
"Right then," Jacobs chuckled, settling into a guard stance that was anything but relaxed. "Let's ascertain if today's the day I finally put you out of commission for a week."
An expectant hush descended over the training yard, disturbed only by the sigh of wind through the leaves clinging stubbornly to the ancient trees bordering the space.
Motion exploded without warning as Henry launched himself forward, his blade a silver blur aimed at Jacobs's sternum, seeking a swift victory through sheer velocity. But the veteran Captain, forged in countless battles, met the onslaught with uncanny grace, a minimalist sidestep effortlessly turning Henry's lethal thrust aside.
Before Henry could recover from his committed lunge, Jacobs's counter flowed seamlessly – his heavy blade, now blazing with arcane silver light, swept around in a devastating arc, the very air humming with amplified force.
Undaunted, raw instinct screaming, Henry reacted. Retreat was impossible; he twisted desperately, channeling his own nascent, volatile power into his defense. A faint, fluctuating blue aura flickered to life around his sword, less refined, less stable than the Captain's silver glow, but fiercely present. He brought his blade up, angling it to meet the incoming blow.
CLANG!
The impact was brutal, a physical shockwave shuddering up Henry's arm, jarring his teeth. The sheer weight and arcane force behind Jacobs's strike were immense. Henry felt his knees buckle, felt himself driven hard onto one knee, the impact stealing his breath. His muscles screamed in protest, threatening to give way entirely. Sheer grit, however, and the strange, stubborn energy within him, allowed him to hold his ground, his blade still locked against the Captain's, trembling violently. Too strong, the thought flashed, sharp and clear. Always too strong.
Before he could even begin to process recovery, Jacobs flowed into the next attack with ruthless efficiency. No pause, no mercy. Seeing Henry grounded and vulnerable, he drove a powerful knee strike straight towards Henry's unprotected face. It wasn't about swordsmanship now; it was about ending the contest.
Pure, unadulterated survival instinct seized Henry's body. Faster than thought, faster than pain, he threw up both forearms in a desperate, crossed block. He felt the sickening crunch as Jacobs's knee connected solidly with his guard, bone rattling against bone. Pain flared, white-hot, along his arms, but the block held, barely. It deflected the worst of the blow, yet the raw kinetic energy transferred was still enormous. He was thrown backward as if struck by a charging bull, tumbling and skidding over five meters across the packed earth before crashing into a painful heap.
Stars burst behind his eyes. He gasped, lungs aching, the world tilting crazily. Scrabbling in the dirt, ignoring the screaming agony in his arms and the throbbing in his skull, he tried to regain his feet. But Jacobs was relentless. The Captain closed the distance instantly, his sword already descending in a vicious, overhead arc, not a killing blow, perhaps, but one certainly meant to disable, to break bone, to emphatically end the lesson.
This time, however, Henry was marginally more prepared. Driven by adrenaline and desperation, he rolled hard to the side. The Captain's blade smashed into the earth where he'd been a split second before, throwing up clods of dirt. Coming up onto one knee, Henry angled his own blade instinctively, meeting Jacobs's recovery swing with a sharp, jarring parry.
CRACK! The sound echoed in the pre-dawn stillness. Seeing Jacobs slightly overextended from the force of his missed blow, Henry spotted a sliver of an opening, perhaps his only one. Spinning low on his heel, ignoring the protests of his abused body, he countered with a swift, rising slash aimed directly at the Captain's exposed flank.
Got him!
THUD!
Agony, absolute and blinding, erupted in Henry's jaw. The world dissolved into white light and searing pain. He found himself slammed backward again, hitting the ground with stunning force another five meters away, the air driven from his lungs in a choked gasp. It wasn't the sword. In the instant Henry launched his counter, Jacobs, anticipating the move with uncanny prescience, had pivoted and delivered a short, brutal punch with his free hand directly to Henry's jaw. There was no wasted movement, just pure, calculated force applied with devastating precision.
Henry lay there, stunned, tasting the metallic tang of blood, his vision slowly swimming back into focus. Dimly, he registered a thin tear in the Captain's tunic, high on the side, his slash had grazed the target, a testament to his speed. But the punch had served its purpose perfectly, interrupting the counter, protecting Jacobs, and sending Henry sprawling in agony. The spar was effectively over.
After changing and strapping on duty gear, breakfast was the usual spartan fare: dense bread, watery chicken stew, bland potatoes. Fuel, not flavor. Sustenance over satisfaction. Jacobs joined his customary table, exchanging boisterous greetings with other veterans. Henry piled an oversized portion onto his plate, his movements economical, focused.
"Still eating for two, Henry?" Torsan, the youngest of their immediate group, inquired with wide-eyed disbelief at the mountain of food.
"Dry bread and stew's fine," Henry mumbled around a mouthful, his gaze fixed on his plate with an odd intensity. "Could eat it for decades."
"Eight years you've maintained that insane training regimen," Daniel, the squad's quiet mage, offered rare praise, his voice soft but sincere. "You deserve a medal just for the dedication, Henry."
Henry finally looked up, managing a faint grin. "You're a mage, Daniel. Eat like me, and you'd probably burst into flames."
"I do strength training too," chimed in Lumos, a hulking youth built like a younger, less-weathered Jacobs. "Still can't stomach half that much." He shook his head in awe.
Jacobs laughed, ruffling Henry's damp hair affectionately. "None of you work day and night like this maniac. Kid needs the fuel." The group chuckled, the familiar banter a shield against the grimness of their lives, a bond forged in shared hardship. Henry returned his attention to his plate, devouring the food with focused determination.
By seven, Henry and his breakfast companions emerged from the mess hall, heading towards the city gates, their figures silhouetted against the burgeoning light. Two more figures in uniform waved them over.
"Sophia! Melly! Over here!" Torsan called out, his youthful energy a stark contrast to the weariness etched on some faces.
Melly, her vibrant red hair bouncing, approached with a fiery glint in her eyes that matched her hair, a passionate spirit barely contained. Sophia followed, more reserved, her neatly tied brown hair framing a face that held thoughtful warmth and quiet intelligence.
"Whole team's assembled," Melly chirped, her energy infectious. "Must be a big one today, right? Heard the Captain muttering about D-rank, maybe worse."
"Let's hope not," Daniel replied calmly, his usual stoicism fixed, though a flicker of concern touched his eyes. "Seven of us for a standard D-rank feels… excessive."
"Anything worse is tempting fate," Henry added, a sliver of genuine concern beneath his half-joking tone. He knew how quickly 'worse' could turn deadly.
"Maybe just a routine patrol?" Torsan asked hopefully.
"Not a chance, kid," Lumos gently knocked Torsan's head. "Captain's got that twitch in his eye again. He's chasing promotions."
Sophia turned to Henry, a slight tilt to her head, a knowing warmth in her gaze. "Friday, isn't it? Did you survive the Captain's fifteen-minute death match this morning?"
Henry managed a grim smile, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. "Survived. Minor fractures, internal bruising, cracked jaw. Nothing serious."
"Lasting that long against a Rank 3 officer?" Daniel noted, a rare hint of admiration in his voice. "Impressive tenacity. Torsan, think you could manage fifteen seconds?"
Melly grinned, mischief sparking in her eyes. "Go on, Torsan!"
Torsan shook his head emphatically. "Five hundred soldiers here, and only Henry's crazy enough for that weekly ritual. No way in hell."
"Listen, kid," Lumos added, weary respect in his voice. "I challenged the Captain exactly three times. Spent a total of two months in the infirmary for my trouble. He doesn't hold back."
Sophia smiled softly at Henry, something deeper than mere camaraderie in her eyes, concern, perhaps, and something more complex still. The shared laughter eased the tension momentarily, their fellowship a fragile shield.
Then, Jacobs finally appeared, his usual jovial expression supplanted by a grim countenance that silenced them immediately. "Command posted over twenty scout missions this morning," Jacobs reported, his voice low, heavy. "Three-quarters are missing persons cases. Two to seven people per case. That's… over sixty souls vanished in just the past few days."
A palpable unease settled over the group, the weight of the number stark in the morning air. Jacobs scanned their faces. "I've picked a D-rank recon mission. Nearby village, Lykuzt. Decent leads reported. Should be… manageable." His voice lacked its usual confidence. That slight hesitation, that flicker of doubt in the Captain's eyes, spoke volumes more than the official rank designation.
Sixty people vanishing into thin air. A D-rank mission. The words clashed, creating a jarring dissonance that echoed the unease now coiling tight in Henry's gut. Whatever awaited them in Lykuzt, 'manageable' felt like a dangerous, perhaps fatal, understatement. The forest, it seemed, was developing an appetite.