The sand-timer was almost empty.
Grains of glass falling like seconds off a life expectancy.
The scout pointed a calloused finger toward the glass. Tuka nodded, his neck stiff. He didn't even know what the scout was trying to convey. He just tried to look "normal"—whatever that meant for a man waiting for his own funeral.
Stay calm. Don't look like a newbie. He chanted.
But the old man's words were stuck in his head like a splinter. He was surrounded by Asuras, he couldn't use his sura yet, and he didn't know how to hold a blade. He wasn't a warrior. He was a sheep in a den of wolves.
Clink.
A swordsman approached. A massive claymore strapped on his back, he brought a pile of leather and steel. He told them The boss lent it to them and they can return it after the exploration—
"If you break them, he'll deduct the cost from your soul. Or your share. Whichever comes first."
He turned to leave, tossing a final remark over his shoulder.
"Try not to die in the first five minutes."
Tuka gulped.
The damn swordsman just fuels his anxiety, on top of worrying over the scouts stabbing him behind his back, now he needs to be wary of the monster too. He could handle the monster outside the capital wall, something like slime and rabbit the size of a dog. But now he was sure there would be no slime in this dungeon.
"Here."
The short-haired scout tossed him a bundle. Leather armor and a standard-issue sword. Tuka caught it, his hands trembling. He felt like a child being handed a rifle and told to hold the front line.
Fake it. If you look like an amateur, you're already dead. He chanted. Again.
He watched the scout. The man moved with a terrifying efficiency, sliding into his gear and snapping daggers onto his belt in one fluid motion.
Tuka copied him. Sloppily.
The leather was cold. The sword belt felt alien on his hip, a heavy reminder that his life now depended on three feet of sharpened iron. Tuka looked down at the notched, rusty iron pole and felt a ghost of a smile tug at his mouth.
"Thanks for the hard work," he muttered, his voice a low scrape.
The pole had finally earned its rest in the dirt.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
The old man was swinging his blade, a rhythmic whoosh cutting through the damp air. He approached and asked him.
"You... used to be a swordsman?" Tuka asked.
The old man stopped. He chuckled—a dry, rasping sound.
"Try a swing, kid," he advised, patting Tuka's shoulder. "Feel the weight. Adjust your power. It'll make you look less like a greenhorn."
The old man advised and patted Tuka's shoulder.
Tuka drew the blade.
Hisss.
It slid from the sheath, but something was wrong.
Light.
The sword felt like a feather. It was significantly lighter than it should have been.
"I told you before, your body is changing." The old man commented. "Your swing is a mess though."
"Ah, yes…."
Tuka responded in a low voice.
The old man glanced at the sand-timer. The last few grains were falling. He sighed and signaled Tuka to follow him. They went to the same shattered house from before.
He suddenly drew his sword in a blur of silver.
Tuka scrambled back, his own blade coming up in a frantic, clumsy guard.
"W-why?!"
"Hold your horses," the old man sighed, leaning the steel against his shoulder. "I'm going to teach you how not to die. If you still end up a corpse, well... that's fate.
"You... you scared me."
"If I wanted to kill you, you'd be a corpse already. Focus."
The old man said since there was not much time. He will only teach Tuka three sword basic strikes.
Slash: Vertical. Horizontal. Let the weight do the work.
Thrust: A straight line. The shortest path between life and death.
Parry: Don't just block. Deflect. Redirect.
"The sword is an extension of your arm," The old man barked. "Predict the line. If you stop moving, you're dead."
The old man asked Tuka to draw his sword; muttering something about teaching it to his body. Tuka tightened the grip on his sword and the old man pressed his blade against Tuka's unceremoniously; the pressure was immense.
"When they touch your steel, you don't wait. You counter. One fluid motion. Never stop until the enemy stops breathing."
Clang.
The sound of metal on metal echoed in the clearing. Tuka didn't answer. He couldn't. He was drowning in the rhythm of the steel.
High slash. Low slash. Middle. Thrust.
"Again!"
They repeated the motion a few more times until The old man sheathed his sword, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. Tuka stood there, chest heaving, his palm burning from the friction of the hilt.
"Why help me?" Tuka managed to ask.
"You remind me of a younger idiot I used to know," The old man said, turning toward the Campsite. "Time's up. Let's go."
Tuka sheathed the blade. For the first time since he'd arrived, the weight on his hip didn't feel like a burden. It felt like a chance. He looked at the old man's back. In a world of predators, he'd found a teacher. He would trust him. For now.
Tuka wondered how strong the old man was in his prime, when he wasn't stripped of his sura.
Ah right, he was reminded of that thing.
"Sura. Can it be taken away?"
Tuka's voice broke the silence on the walk back. He was thinking of the old man's hollow strength. Of the 'Sura' that should have been there.
"Yes. Either you draw it out or someone cuts it out of you. But it's a gamble. There's no guarantee—just like the monsters you slay, sometimes they leave nothing behind." the old man replied. His voice was flat.
Then he stared at Tuka briefly and sneered.
"But not from you though. Since your power is still dormant, there isn't much to gain from harvesting a seed that hasn't sprouted. But others don't know that. For an Asura, it's much easier to kill a newbie like you than a real monster."
He continued, the sneer gone.
"Also, the Lumen Church. They have a class specifically designed to sabotage the Sura. They didn't just defeat me. They hollowed me out, well to be exact they hollowed everyone that was sent to Angkara."
The old man raised his hand. The sigil etched into his skin glowed with a faint, sickly light. It looked like a dying ember. Tuka stared at the sigil. His chest tightened. For a moment, his eyes burned with a reckless heat.
"I don't know much yet," Tuka said, stopping in his tracks. "But I swear... I'll help you to restore your sura!"
The old man stopped. He looked at Tuka, his expression unreadable behind the grime and wrinkles.
Then, he laughed. A small, dry sound.
"Ha! You can't even swing a sword properly!."
He turned and kept walking.
"But... I appreciate the sentiment."
Tuka watched him go with slight annoyance over the comment but once again he was right; the swordsmanship was a new thing for him, he can't even swing properly. He was thankful for the old man. In this pit of murderers and monsters, the old man's back looked like a fortress.
As long as he's here, Tuka thought, nothing can go wrong.
It was a comforting thought.
It was also a dangerous one.
*******************************************************************************
"Let's depart!"
Clatter.
Clatter.
Twenty-two Asuras moved as one. A line of steel and wood marching toward a tunnel the size of a cathedral. Four parties. Heavy wagons. Monstrous boar-creatures straining against their harnesses, their tusks scraping the stone.
The boss sat on the lead cart, giving instructions to his men.
The formation was tight.
Each Asura was positioned according to their class: Scouts, the eyes. Were sent out ahead to fanned out the darkness. Archer and Mage, the ranged damage dealer. Perched on the middle wagon, their divinity humming in the air. Swordsman, the bread and butter of battle. Walking the perimeter, hands on pommels.
Tuka's party was relegated to the rear, protecting the supporter party mostly consisting of porter and junior swordsman. Their party leader, an acolyte that looked to be in her twenties, was conversing with the old man. He was leaning in, a crooked grin on his face.
I forgot he was that kind of guy, Tuka sighed internally.
To think he considered him as his teacher before. Tuka takes another peek at the Acolyte, the girl was typical of Aetheria citizens, wavy brown hair and eyes that vaguely recalled sky, pale skin covered with white priestly robe and an elegant calm face that didn't belong here.
She must smell like flowers, Tuka thought.
His face flushed. He shook his head violently. Stop it. The old man's bad habits are rubbing off on me. But his curiosity won out. He drifted closer to the cart, ears straining to catch their whispers.
"This dungeon. No one knows how deep it goes," the acolyte said, tucking a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear. "Rumor says some Guilds reached the Third Layer last month. A feat no one has been able to achieve for the past three years."
She paused, her eyes narrowing.
"Everyone is gathering there now. Food, water, resources and sura. It's all waiting."
"And us?" The old man asked. "Do we have the teeth to bite into the Third Layer?"
"I hope so," she said softly. Her voice was like velvet, but her eyes were steel. "Let's just pray for a smooth journey this time."
"Did the last exploration not go well?"
The acolyte's expression froze.
"I cannot say more."
The acolyte said softly but a steely tone underpinned every word. The old man nodded, turning his attention back to the reins.
Third Layer, that's all I got from eavesdropping? Tuka chewed his lip.
He was the most clueless person in the entire expedition. He didn't know the politics, he didn't know the history, and he barely knew his own power. He lacks power as of now, at the very least he won't let himself lacking a brain too. He swore to get as much as information later.
Slide.
The front line vanished.
One by one, the wagons were swallowed by the tunnel's mouth. A stone throat leading into the bowels of the earth. Tuka reached down. His hand found the hilt of his sword.
Cold. Solid.
The touch of the steel calmed his racing heart. Was it his class? Or was it just the comfort of having a way to fight back?
He didn't know.
He stepped into the shadows. Into whatever fate had prepared for him.