One Who Waits I - The Nomad Who Wasn't, ...How much courage is needed to face a destiny that is not yours? Options

[Mikey]

One Who Waits
Book 1 - The Nomad Who Wasn’t

It is said that courage is needed in everything you do.
You need courage to live, courage to move, and courage to love.
You need courage to face circumstance, to make your choices, and to live with the consequences.
You need courage to face your destiny.
But how much courage is needed to face a destiny that is not yours?

• • •

Prologue
A Nomad In The Northern Capital

The Nomad boy knew little of the world outside Morroc when he first set out into the unknown in the 1391st year of Starkad. He had no goal or no destination when he left: only a reason to be alone, and a promise that could no longer be kept.

This was the boy’s third winter in the wilderness. It was getting dark, and the cold was bitter. He had survived snakebites, wolf attacks, and bandits on his journey north. There seemed to be no end in sight—and for the first time in three years, he felt like finally giving up.

The boy stopped walking for a moment, feeling the pain that his worn-out shoes failed to spare his feet from. He weakly clutched his tattered gray cloak, uncommitedly trying to get whatever warmth he could from the damp fabric. He looked beaten. His voyage was going nowhere. The only reason he was alive was that no one—or nothing—had killed him yet. As he resumed walking, he wondered once again about the time when he would finally stop, lie down on the ground, and not get up again. He wished it would come soon, if only to end this hollow cycle of pain and regrets.

These and other troublesome thoughts quickly became forgotten as the boy climbed onto the crest of a low ridge and saw, for the first time in his life, the bright lights of Prontera Fort City.

• • •

Mikieru Makimachi frowned.

The snow had been falling mightily on Prontera Fort City for the past three days, making his job as a Constable of the Prontera Chivalry anything but exciting.

As if my job wasn't sour enough, he thought, his eyes on the incessant rain of white. First a demotion, now this…

Through his round-rimmed dark glasses, he idly watched people scurrying in the darkening streets while he sat in a food trailer on the sidewalk. He still hadn’t gotten used to life in the big city. He used to be one of the best Clerics in the Prontera Chivalry, renowned for his courage and fighting prowess. His current occupation was an infamy for him, especially since he knew he did nothing to deserve it.

Mikieru was a war veteran at 27. He had served as a field lieutenant during the three-year Frontier War, a chaotic period when the Black Nomads of Morroc began an ethnic purging in the Desert and killed thousands of Northerners, White Nomads, and Orients. The Northern Alliance, which consisted of the Fort Cities Prontera and Payon, fought to prevent the anarchy from reaching their borders, and Mikieru was one of the first volunteers.

It was during the third year of the war when he and the rest of his Company were blamed for the failed and mistaken raids on friendly encampments, which were in truth due to the faulty commands of their superiors. Despite their sincere vindications, he and his fellow field lieutenants were pronounced guilty and recalled from the frontlines.

Back in Prontera, some of Mikieru’s fellow lieutenants plotted to exact vengeance for the dishonor that had been done to them. Garrione, a Knight whose ascension to Lord Knighthood was derailed by the accusations, led the scheme. Repeatedly, he asked Mikieru and the rest of the humiliated soldiers to join them in a plot that promised to be fail-safe.

The Cleric refused. While he shared their sentiments, he was not willing to shed any more blood than they already had. Mikieru even threatened Garrione that the authorities would know about the uprising if the Knight did not back down. Garrione agreed—but only to secretly launch an assassination attempt on several key military leaders soon after.

The attempt was largely unsuccessful, but Garrione and 150 of those loyal to him were able to steal away some of Prontera’s finest Peco Mounts, armor and weapons, as well as several top-secret military documents from the Alliance desert HQ. The traitors then rode away into the night, not to be seen again for two years.

Mikieru was innocent, but some suspected he and Garrione shared the same motives. To avoid any further scandal, the Cleric chose to resign from his military position and instead took a local job as a Constable. He was to spend his days and nights patrolling the streets of Prontera, maintaining the peace. Mikieru somberly considered his military career over—and it confounded him to know that he had not done anything wrong.

The disillusioned Cleric sighed. He looked around him, taking in the wretched blight of the run-down Dolter district. Much of the rest of Prontera mirrored the disfigurement he saw here—a city that grew too quickly for its walls that they had to be torn down and rebuilt several times. To date, the crowded Fort City covered almost 1,000 square kilometers and had more than one million citizens—too crowded for the Cleric’s tastes. He knew very few, if any, of Prontera’s citizens would want to live here if it weren’t the crossroads of countless trade routes in the North. He, in his case, was here only for the reason that he had nowhere else to go…

A running figure flashed before Mikieru's eyes, breaking his thoughts. His eyes followed the runner, then another, into a small mob forming in an alley behind the trailer. From the sounds coming from the crowd, he could tell that a fight was going to break out.

Another fight, he thought, getting up and making sure his Mace was at his side. We've been getting too many these past few days. He left the trailer and walked towards the crowd, leaving his sandwich unfinished.

“Make way, Constable coming through,” he called, slightly wincing at the word ‘Constable’ as he pushed his way towards the front row of the crowd.

“Damn it, a Constable,” he heard someone mutter.

“Just like them to ruin the fun,” muttered another.

Mikieru stopped in the front row, beside a large man in a trench coat who eyed him shiftily. At the open space in the middle of the crowd, three male figures stood still. There were a few burning barrels in the vicinity, so the Cleric had to squint to see who they were.

Old Occultists, he thought, recognizing the black bandanas on the two larger figures.

The Old Occultists were a group of misfits who claimed to be the real keepers of peace and order in Prontera, citing the inadequate efforts exerted by the Prontera Chivalry to tone down crime and discontent in the Capital City. Mikieru would have agreed with them if it weren’t for the fact that the Old Occultists actually caused more crimes than they claimed to preclude.

The Old Occultists did not recognize the laws of Prontera. Instead, they operated on a Martial Law system. As well as having their own rules, they also had their own ways of enforcing them. These included blackmail, extortion, thievery and, oftentimes, violence.

Mikieru squinted harder, trying to see who the third figure was. From behind his dark glasses he saw a lean boy, no older than 13, wearing tattered traveling clothes. While the sight of the urchin wasn't unfamiliar to him, Mikieru found it strange that the boy had, together, the tan skin of a White Nomad and blue hair only found in Northerners. A half-breed? Unlikely—it had long been known that, although all Nomads and Northerners were undeniably Human, genetic differences prevented reproduction between the two races. Also strange was his presence here; Prontera had closed its borders to all Nomads after the Frontier War abruptly ended in a stalemate three years ago.

The two Occultists glared at the boy. They stood a few meters on both sides of the boy, offering him no escape. One Occultist had a Smasher in hand; the other had a Broadsword. In the boy's hand was a small bag containing zenny.

“What is going on here?” Mikieru asked the man beside him.

“Just like you to ruin the fun, Constable,” the large man replied, annoyed. “This Nomad was found walking the streets with a hood over his head, and somehow these Occultists guessed what he was. They also found some zenny on him, so now they’re negotiating.”

“Negotiating.”

“Yes.”

“Occultists do not negotiate.”

“No.”

“Which means the boy is going to get killed.”

“You can see it that way; it’s fine with us. The kid’s gonna get worked in any case, so we might as well have some fun while we’re at it. Do us a favor and let the Occultists do the job, eh?”

Mikieru looked back at the boy. The boy's eyes were wide—confused, but not scared. It was obvious that the child did not know what was going on and who his two tormentors were.

The Occultist with the Smasher spoke up. “This is your last chance, brat,” he hissed, pointing the mutilated club at the boy's chest. “For passage and your continued breathing, pay up.”

The boy fidgeted, and answered with a quivering voice: “No.”

“Fine,” the second Occultist snapped. “We’ll do this the hard way.”

“You’ll be sorry you messed with the law, kid,” declared the first Occultist. He withdrew his Smasher and positioned it to strike.

The boy's face tightened as he recognized the hostile stance the first Occultist assumed. Slowly, he put his zenny bag back into his belt and took out a small knife, with a straight edge and a 4-inch blade.

“Let me go,” the boy warned, assuming a passive defensive stance. The knife was in his right hand, blade down.

The Occultists sneered. “Go to hell, Nomad whelp.”

Mikieru swallowed. He had seen Nomad children dying in the crossfire during the Frontier War. It was a sight that he did not have a partiality for, and he was not about to see it happen within the sheltered borders of this Fort City. He reached for his Mace and opened his mouth to call a halt to the fight.

At that instant his eyes met the boy’s, and he stopped. Mikieru’s hand touched no Mace; his mouth uttered no sound. The boy was not afraid—his eyes made Mikieru feel, strangely, that everything would be all right.

Then the Occultists attacked. The first Occultist leaped forward, his Smasher drawn back above his head in the prelude of a vicious downward smash. The men in the crowd gasped; the women screamed. Too late, Mikieru grasped the handle of his own Mace; he knew that the boy’s knife wouldn't be able to parry the Smasher.

Mikieru watched as the boy lunged forward, crossing his forearms above his head, catching the Occultist’s arm at the apex of the Smasher swing. The shocked Occultist stopped in his tracks, wide-eyed. The boy threw the Occultist's mace arm down to his right, and the man lost his balance and tipped forward with a grunt.

The boy's right arm was drawn back; the Occultist's throat was exposed; the knife was poised to strike. Mikieru watched breathlessly as the boy threw his arm forward.

A loud crack echoed through the alley.

Instead of slicing the Occultist's throat, the boy's right hand curled into a fist and hit the Occultist between the eyes in a perfectly executed high punch. The Occultist flew backwards and landed on his back, unconscious.

“Whoa,” Mikieru muttered, impressed at the boy's counter-attack.

The second Occultist stood wide-eyed, disbelieving the way his superior was floored by a mere Nomad boy. Shaking, he drew his Broadsword and held it with two hands. “You little stink-bug!” he fumed. “I'll kill you!” He charged at the boy, sword at his side, poised to deliver a thrust.

The boy quickly turned and assumed a fighting stance. Seeing that he couldn't block the sword thrust, he sidestepped, evading the sword blade by inches. Fuming, the Occultist swung his sword in a wild backhand slash. The boy ducked, calmly waiting for the blade to pass over his head. Then he saw the opening.

The boy leaped and slammed a closed fist under the Occultist's chin. The Occultist, knocked off the ground by the boy's uppercut, let go of his Broadsword. After delivering the uppercut, the boy twisted in mid-air, lifting his left leg and landing it in the Occultist's midsection in a turning back kick. The Occultist flew backwards, hitting a wall and falling on his face.

The boy landed on the ground, instinctively poised to meet another attack. The second Occultist made an effort to get up, but lost consciousness halfway up on his feet. The crowd made sounds of awe.

The boy stood up. The entire fight had not lasted thirty seconds. After making sure he had all his belongings in his pockets, the boy pulled the frayed hood over his head and started walking, quietly, into the dark alley.

“All right everyone, break it up,” Mikieru called, motioning to the crowd. “Nothing to see here… anymore.”

“Are you mad?” a drunk man called from the mob. “Y’can’t have a Nomad in the Capital!”

The man made a move to lunge at the Cleric, but stopped when he saw the rest of the mob did not share his sentiments. The rest of the crowd dispersed, the men satisfied, the women relieved. Not a few turned to look back at the Nomad boy who defeated two Old Occultists with his bare hands.

“Er, never mind,” the man stammered, withdrawing from Mikieru’s stare. “The, er, Constabulary is gonna hear about this incident anyway, eh?”

When most of the crowd had gone, Mikieru turned to survey the scene. Two unconscious Occultists lay on the ground. A shady silhouette was walking into the alley.

Intrigued, he followed the boy quietly, neglecting to make field notes of the incident.

• • •

The wind was cold in the alley. The boy mournfully clasped his traveling cloak, trying to keep warm. He had all but forgotten about the fight that took place only minutes ago. He was now thinking of what to do with his remaining money; whether to spend it on a room for the night, to buy some warm food, or to save it for tomorrow. He had been pondering the same choice long before the fight.

As he rounded a corner, he stopped, wide-eyed. In front of him, hunched beside a refuse bin, was a little girl of about ten, clutching a small bundle. From the sounds he heard, he could tell that the girl was holding a baby—a sibling. Seeing him, the girl tried to hush the baby. The boy's heart ached as he saw the freezing tears on the girl's face. These children had been caught in the worst part of the snowstorm and got lost.

These are orphans, the boy thought. Just like… like…

Coming closer, the boy knelt and touched the girl's face. It was as cold as ice. Quickly, he took off his coat and wrapped it around the two children. He threw his arms around them and pressed, instinctively trying to save their lives. The girl readily leaned her head on his chest, willingly accepting any semblance of help, even from a stranger.

Even from a Nomad.

The boy felt like crying. He did not pity the girl. She made him remember an event in the past… an event he had tried for years to forget.

The boy heard a sound in the alley behind him, but he did not turn to look. If he were to be attacked, he would not defend himself. Whether or not he was going to die in this alley on this very night did not matter to him. The lives he was protecting on his chest was much more important, much more precious than his own.

“Kid.”

The boy slightly turned his head to the side, in a gesture that indicated he was listening.

“You do not deserve to be out in these alleys.”

The boy turned to look at the speaker.

“Come with me,” the tall man said, offering a gloved hand.

The boy hesitated. The man stepped closer, and light reflected on the silver cross hanging from around his neck. The boy saw the cross—and knew that he could trust this man.

The boy carefully stood up, making sure the girl followed suit. He kept his arms around her even as Mikieru took him under his long coat. Together, they walked out of the dark alleys into the wide lighted streets of Prontera Fort City.

• • •

To be continued

This post has been edited by Mikey: Aug 10 2006, 08:42 PM

[Mikey]

“My goodness, where have you been? We were looking everywhere for you!”

The young women who answered the door at the orphanage frantically ushered the young girl and her sibling into the warm foyer of the dilapidated facility. One of them remained at the door, thanking the Cleric profusely.

“You have our deepest gratitude, Brother!” she stammered. “I will have to send word to call off the search for them. You have saved us a great deal of trouble!”

Mikieru nodded, brushing off the misguided gratitude. He moved a flap of his long black coat slightly, gesturing that he had one more child under his coat.

“Ah, and as for him… er…” the woman’s voice trailed off when she saw the color of the boy’s skin. She looked at Mikieru warily and swallowed when she realized he was waiting for an answer.

“Er… that is, I… I believe we’re full up these days, it being winter and all,” she stammered. “I am not sure if we could accept any more…”

Mikieru sighed and turned to walk away, gently nudging the boy to follow him.

“I… I will talk to my supervisor about it… I mean him… I will let you know if…”

The tall Cleric looked over his shoulder and nodded as politely as he could, fully knowing that she was not going to do the things she said. The orphanage was not about to take a Nomad in.

Mikieru walked slowly, making sure the boy kept up with him.

“So,” he ventured after a moment. “What is your name?”

The boy looked down, as if trying to remember. “Shin-ju,” he uttered.

“Shin-ju?” Mikieru repeated, raising an eyebrow at the Payonese-sounding name. “Shin-ju what?”

The boy hesitated. “J-just Shin-ju, sir.”

“You do not have a family name?”

Mikieru saw the boy close his mouth. He was not going to get an answer.

“I understand,” the Cleric concluded. “Then I will call you Shin-ju from now on.”

At the words ‘from now on,’ Shin-ju looked up.

“My name is Mikieru Makimachi,” the Cleric introduced himself. “I am a Constable of the Prontera Chivalry. Now tell me, Shin-ju: where did you come from?”

“From… from Morroc,” Shin-ju answered.

“Is that so?” Mikieru bit his lip upon hearing the name of the Frontier Capital. “How did you get here?”

“By walking.”

“You walked here?”

“I didn’t walk here, sir. I wasn’t headed in any particular direction… I didn’t even know the name of this place until you mentioned it just now.”

“That is well. This is Prontera, and it is fair warning to tell you that Nomads are not welcome here, as those two clowns tried to show you a while ago. Then again, you are not a true Nomad, are you?”

Shin-ju looked up. “Why?”

“Your hair. It’s blue. Nomads never grow blue hair.”

“That’s true. They said the same things to me back in Morroc three winters ago.”

Three years ago? Mikieru thought as the boy continued.

“Could I help it if I was born like this? The Black Nomads never listen to me, though. Those men never listen to anyone outside their race. It’s… it’s the main reason why I left. It’s funny to think that it’s like I left Morroc only to go back to it. It’s exactly like Morroc in this place, only with the sides reversed. People judging me by the color of my hair or skin, and people wanting to kill me for that reason… it’s like I never left.”

Mikieru couldn’t help but smile at the boy’s elucidation. “How old are you, Shin-ju?”

“I’m thirteen, sir.”

“As I had guessed,” Mikieru said, walking carefully down a sloped sidewalk. “I’m twenty-seven, and here we are, talking like we’re both eligible for retirement. How’s that?”

Shin-ju smiled for the first time. “I… maybe it’s because you get to think a lot when you’re all alone out there.”

“Three years of being all alone out there, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mikieru laughed quietly as they rounded a corner. “Then I got just the thing for you. When I think, I get hungry… and if you have been thinking so hard for three years, I could only imagine the appetite you must have.”

Shin-ju’s smile faded when he realized Mikieru was taking him to a food trailer.

“Er, that really isn’t necessary, sir,” Shin-ju stammered, although his mouth watered when he smelled the scent of cooked food for the first instance in a long time.

“Do not worry about it,” Mikieru answered softly, beckoning the boy to take a seat at the food counter. “Call it a reward for making my job a little easier to swallow today.”

• • •

Mikieru dolefully eyed the stack of bowls. He had underestimated the boy’s appetite. Already, Shin-ju had eaten through five bowls of rice and two plates of spring rolls.

“Eat slowly,” the Cleric solicited, as worried about his money as he was about the boy getting indigestion by eating so much after starving for so long.

Shin-ju put down his fifth bowl and took a sip of hot tea. “Thank you, sir,” he said, quite happy.

Mikieru nodded, then asked. “Shin-ju?”

The boy looked up.

“Do you not get tired of wandering?”

Shin-ju thought for a moment, then nodded slightly. “Yes, I am tired,” he said.

“Then you would not mind staying in Prontera for the meantime?”

“I… I’d like to stay in one place for once… but I can’t keep sponging off you like this forever.”

“Of course not. You will work for me.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“As what?"

“As a janitor, for starters. I work at the Chivalry HQ, on the northwest side of this Fort City. We are a little short on maintenance crew right now, and the fact that it is wintertime does not help things. You ought to smell the place. In effect you will be supporting yourself. At the same time, you will get to meet people. Who knows? If all goes well, you might save up enough to go to school.”

“School,” Shin-ju repeated, smiling at the word. “That sounds… good.”

“It is set, then,” Mikieru said, pleased. “It will be a bit hard at first, but you will get used to it. I got your back.”

• • •

A heavy crash sounded behind them.

Mikieru and Shin-ju froze at the sound. Slowly they turned to see what made it.

Behind them stood a huge armored man, holding the handle of a very large Mace, its head planted on the ground. The man was wearing a black bandana and had a glass eye. Around him stood seven other men, also wearing black bandanas. Two of them, slightly hunched and slightly bruised, stood behind the rest. All of them stared at Shin-ju with murderous eyes.

“Occultists,” Mikieru muttered.

“Is this the brat?” the Head Occultist boomed angrily, veins pulsing in his bald head.

“Y-yes, sir,” said the first bruised Occultist.

The Head Occultist stepped forward. “No one messes with the Old Occultists!” he shouted at Shin-ju. “You’ll pay with your life!”

Shin-ju stood up and faced the mob, prepared to fight them if they attacked.

“Hold on,” Mikieru calmly said, his back still turned to the mob. Shin-ju, surprised, looked at him.

“What the hell?” the Head Occultist roared.

“You want this boy?” Mikieru turned slowly. “Sorry, but he is… my Apprentice. If you want him, you will have to go through me first.”

“Hah! The idiot Priest!” the Head Occultist guffawed, seeing Mikieru's silver cross. “You think you can beat me, preacher? What’re you gonna do, feed me your breadcrumbs until I choke?”

Mikieru smirked. “What do you say we arm-wrestle for him?” he said, pointing to a broken wooden table in the alley behind them. “If I win, you leave him alone.”

“Stuck-up little punk! When I win, we take the boy… but not before we dump your self-righteous carcass in the middle of the street!”

Shin-ju looked at Mikieru, dumbfounded. Mikieru looked tall and strong, but the Head Occultist was one-and-a-half feet taller and several hundred pounds heavier than him. The Head Occultist's arm alone looked three times larger than Mikieru's own. There was no way Mikieru would win in an arm-wrestling contest with this person.

The other Occultists prepared the table while their boss and Mikieru waited. Shin-ju looked on from behind Mikieru, worried. A small mob started forming around the scene. The owner of the food trailer hurriedly closed his shop.

When the table was ready, the Head Occultist immediately took his place and threw his right elbow down on it. The other Occultists stood behind him, grinning in confidence and amusement as Mikieru calmly stood up and walked to his place.

“Don’t worry. I'll pray over your carcass," the big man mocked. “Hope you get a cool spot in hell!”

The other Occultists laughed. Mikieru said nothing.

Mikieru took his place at the table and placed his elbow on the table. His gloved hand touched the Head Occultist's gauntlet. Immediately they clasped hands.

“Shin-ju,” Mikieru said without turning. Shin-ju looked at him.

“You give the signal.”

Shin-ju hesitated, but obeyed. He took a spoon that the shop owner had left on the counter.

“When the spoon hits the gutter,” he said slowly.

He threw the spoon upwards. The Occultists watched it rise, then fall. The Head Occultist and Mikieru waited for the sound to come. The crowd waited with bated breath.

A tiny ring came, followed by a resounding wooden crash.

“What the f—?!” the Head Occultist screamed.

Everyone around the two arm-wrestlers gaped at the big man as he tipped sideways off his seat, his legs flying well above his head. Mikieru sat motionless, elbow on the table, gloved hand empty.

The Head Occultist crashed to the ground beside him and rolled on his back. He sat up and looked, dumbfounded, at Mikieru. Mikieru was smiling. His elbow was still on the table, forearm upright. There was a dent on the table's surface—it was shaped like the back of the Head Occultist's gauntlet.

Amazed, Shin-ju looked at Mikieru, trying to find the reason behind the surprising victory. He saw a bluish-white glow at the palm of Mikieru's black glove.

He recognized it right away—it was Blessing!

“Always think twice before underestimating a man of the Church,” Mikieru told the Head Occultist. “I have ways to raise my strength to a point above even yours.”

The Head Occultist stared at Mikieru in frustrated disbelief, nursing his sprained elbow, as the other Occultists struggled to help him on his feet.

Facing the Occultists, Mikieru took off his glasses.

“NOW GET LOST BEFORE I PUT YOUR SORRY ASSES UNDER ARREST!”

The Occultists froze when they saw his eyes—one iris a deep blue, the other an Elfish green—and immediately they recognized who he was.

“Holy crap—it’s the Kitsune!” screamed the Head Occultist.

“RUN!” his subordinates screamed.

Mikieru, Shin-ju, and the crowd watched in amused satisfaction as the Occultists scampered away, their red-faced leader staggering in tow.

Mikieru, for the second time in the day, asked the crowd to disperse. Shin-ju watched Mikieru's tall frame moving about, arms raised effortlessly, voice calmly addressing the crowd. He saw in Mikieru what the Cleric’s superiors found dangerous in him—a genuine goodness.

Mikieru turned his uncovered eyes to Shin-ju. The boy was beaming, very impressed. It had been too long since Shin-ju last looked up to anyone. And now, here stood a man whom he had just met for the first time tonight, and whom he was already intensely proud of.

“Sorry about that,” Mikieru joked. “After you have stayed a little longer in this Fort City, you will realize that it's the same as the wilderness in many, many ways.”

“I know,” Shin-ju answered. “But the wilderness doesn't have you.”

Their eyes met for a moment—Mikieru’s green-and-blue irises and Shin-ju's lonely gray stare—and that was the final seal of their friendship.

[Mikey]

Chapter One
Trust Me

Mikieru smirked as he rode his Peco Mount through the streets of Prontera Fort City. It was April, the threshold between spring and summer, and the rain was pouring. The Constable was on his usual shift. His beat was a particularly wide avenue that began at the city’s south gate and tore a straight path through three districts before terminating at Prontera’s Central Park. It was the Northern Capital’s front door, and traders concentrated their dealings here. The bustling commercial atmosphere and the scores of mercantile inns that thrived along the street earned it the fond moniker “Merchant’s Alley.”

Mikieru was soaking wet, but he did not notice. The bad weather made him remember a day, three months ago, when he met a unique Nomad boy in the same street in weather just as bad.

It was half-past seven in the evening when Mikieru rode halfway through the sprawling Fort City into the Chivalry HQ. The day was uneventful. He had settled two commercial disputes and a tavern fight that morning, but the rest of the afternoon was one big yawn. The Old Occultists had kept a low profile after realizing Mikieru was patrolling Merchant’s Alley and the Dolter District, and were currently carrying out their shady operations elsewhere in the city.

The Chivalry HQ was designed like a fort, with a gatehouse, two fortified battlements, and a keep that served as the main office hall of the Constabulary. Originally the HQ was meant to house the leaders of Prontera’s military arm, but the Frontier War had forced the army to move to a more strategic—and less hospitable—location in the Sograt Desert Garrison. The undermanned Constabulary moved in only a few years ago, and management of the place proved to be very unwieldy for most of the overseeing Prefects.

It was owing to this fact that Mikieru wasn’t surprised when he failed to see any sentries in the Gatehouse, the battlements, and turrets as he rode in under the downpour. The gates were wide open, practically inviting unauthorized entry. A quick scan of the drenched, empty grounds made no indication of unlawful individuals—in fact, there was no sign of any individuals at all.

The Cleric rode into the Peco Stables and dismounted. He tied his Peco into its stall and proceeded towards the nearby changing room, taking off his wet coat.

An audible expression of disgust escaped his lips as he pushed the door open.

“Jake. Rick. Marcello.”

Annoyed, the three disheveled Knights looked up from their small poker table. They didn’t seem pleased to see him.

“What do you think you are doing, leaving your posts like this?” the Cleric admonished, wiping himself dry with a towel.

“Hey, nothing’s gonna happen, Makimachi,” Jake sniffed. “No one’s attacking the HQ.”

“That is not what I mean,” Mikieru replied. “You know as well as I do that no one is allowed to leave their posts at any time during duty hours.”

“Heh,” Rick snickered, drawing from the deck of cards on the table. “Not like we’re AWOL or anything, right? It's ain’t no big deal.”

Mikieru glanced at them while fixing two mugs of coffee. “Here I am, soaking wet, being told by three Knights playing hooky that my job is no big deal.”

“Look,” Rick snapped. “Even the Head Prefect hasn’t reported to work all week.”

“Neither has most of his Senior Staff,” Jake added.

“Exactly,” Rick finished. “Nothing's going to happen, Mikieru. Why doncha give yourself a break?”

“Forget it, guys,” Marcello drawled without looking up from his hand of cards. “Reckon it must be hard to give yourself a break when there’s so much tension weighin’ you down.”

“Better to live tense than to die relaxed,” Mikieru muttered to himself.

“Wha'cha say?” Marcello asked, going out of his way to turn his head towards the Cleric when he asked the question.

“Nothing,” Mikieru answered. “Where is Shin-ju?”

“Who?”

“Shin-ju.”

“You mean that Nomad-bastard?”

Mikieru turned, raised his arm, and smashed his gloved fist down on the poker table, denting the table surface and scattering coins, cards and cigarette stubs. The three Knights dropped their cards and sat up, blinking.

“Don’t you dare call him that in front of me.”

The three Knights saw Mikieru's intense blue-and-green stare from behind his dark glasses—and said nothing. Mikieru took the two mugs of mocha he prepared and walked out of the changing room without another word.

A few moments later, Jake recovered enough to ask, “What the hell’s wrong with that guy?” He picked up coins and cards from the floor and resumed their card game.

• • •

Mikieru walked through the torch-lit halls, mugs in hands. As he passed by the Knights’ common rooms, he saw many other Knights who were supposed to be out on patrol or watch duty. They were joking, laughing, and drinking beside warm fireplaces. Others were playing cards. Several others were sleeping, snoring loudly.

Mikieru looked away in irritation.

There was a door at the end of the hall with the word “STORAGE” painted on it. Mikieru pushed it open and looked around the tiny room.

A bucket stood in the corner by the door, with a mop in it, its handle leaning against the wall. Waste pipes ran along the ceiling, some dripping. The walls were sooty. A broken closet stood at the left wall, with a worn futon and pillow under its vanity counter. Several boxes were stacked in the right and back walls.

Mikieru looked at the highest stack of boxes, near the small high window.

On the top box sat Shin-ju, leaning against the wall. The boy was looking out the window, idly watching the rain fall.

“Hi, Shin-ju,” Mikieru greeted.

Shin-ju turned to face the Cleric. “Good evening, Senpai,” the boy answered, reaching out as Mikieru handed him a mug of coffee.

Shin-ju watched Mikieru as the Cleric took a large box and sat on it. Shin-ju had learned a lot about Mikieru during the past three months.

Mikieru had trained at the Prontera Academy when he was 13 and trained as an Acolyte until he was 18. The highlight of Mikieru's young career was when he was sent, with a party of Knights and Swordsmen trainees, to the Mjolnir Coal Mines. They were to investigate a mysterious disappearance of coal miners in the lower levels. They had found that the miners had been cursed by a Dark Priest, a powerful undead creature that created its minions from living beings it encountered. The Knights weren't equipped to fight, and were soon wounded.

Mikieru stepped up and, with his unusually-advanced Blessing skill level, used his amplified speed and strength to take down the formidable Dark Priest itself. Mikieru emerged unscathed from the violent battle.

Mikieru had taken charge of the party, healing the wounds of his companions and rescuing the surviving coal miners. Later, when the Church learned of Mikieru's single-handed victory over the Dark Priest, the Clerics gave him the nickname “Kitsune,” a Payonese word that meant ‘fox,’ in distinction of his isolated courage. At the age of 18, Mikieru was ordained a Cleric and immediately began to serve in the Prontera Army.

Shin-ju then looked at Mikieru's eyes and smiled. Above all Mikieru’s achievements, the one he admired most was the way he rose above the people's prejudice. When Mikieru first came to Prontera, the people were suspicious of his green eye. Green eyes, as had long been known in Midgard, only occurred naturally in Elves. They accused him of being an Elf-bastard; yet now, they respected him as one of them.

The color of his eyes did not hinder him one bit, Shin-ju thought, looking at his own brown skin. One day I’ll be exactly like him.

Then Shin-ju realized that Mikieru had been quiet for several minutes, and he felt the impulse to begin a conversation.

“Senpai,” he called brightly. “How was your day?”

“Terrible,” Mikieru answered.

Shin-ju's smile faded. Mikieru never used that word to describe his day before.

“I think I am beginning to hate my job,” Mikieru continued, staring at the ground at his feet. “I cannot see any point to it anymore. I thought keeping the peace would make a difference… I resolved three disturbances today, but what about the hundreds of other crimes in Prontera that slip through the cracks? I do what I know is right… and despite my sincerest efforts, I fail to make a difference.”

Mikieru sighed. “It is during times like this when I think my very existence is a mistake.”

Shin-ju looked away. Seeing Mikieru so down was unsettling for him.

“Hmhm…”

Shin-ju looked up. Mikieru was chuckling, looking away.

“What's so… funny?” Shin-ju asked.

Mikieru looked up at Shin-ju, trying to hold back his quiet laughter. “Here I am, ranting about how inane my job as a Constable is… to a janitor who sleeps in a utility room and hardly gets paid.” The Cleric laughed in self-depreciating humor. “Sorry for being so stupid. I was thinking of myself too much.”

Shin-ju smiled. “That’s OK, Senpai. Before I met you, I felt the same way.”

Mikieru’s smile faded as Shin-ju turned his eyes to the raindrops outside the window. “I’m only thirteen, but I’ve already seen what people can do to each other… I’ve already seen how helpless good can be in the face of so much evil. I’ve given up on my fellow human beings years ago. I was convinced that people were evil by nature, and there was no place in this world where I could find peace. And then I met you.”

Shin-ju looked at Mikieru. “You made me realize, Senpai, that all this evil is no reason for us not to be on the good side. It is all the more reason for us to keep doing what’s right, because it’s the absence of people like you that allowed all this evil to exist in the first place.”

Mikieru stared at Shin-ju blankly for a moment. The boy’s wisdom was well beyond his years, and even now Mikieru hadn’t gotten used to his multifaceted explanations.

The Cleric took a sip of coffee. “You know what I think?” he asked after a moment.

Shin-ju cocked his head slightly as Mikieru continued.

“I think you think too much.”

The two friends laughed brightly. In that instant, the gloom of the day past was dispelled in the sound of each other’s laughter.

“Seriously,” Mikieru said, taking out his money pouch, “There is no need to go all mysterious on me, not at your age. You are supposed to be enjoying yourself while you still can.” He took 500 zenny from the pouch and handed it to Shin-ju. “Go out and have a good dinner. Get something heavy… a bacon cheeseburger from The Cat In Gloves, for instance. You will not last long like that, being so thin and thinking your head off at the same time.”

Shin-ju looked at the money in his hand. “You sure it's OK? You're not coming with me?”

“Do I look like I need another shower?”

• • •

The Cat In Gloves was one of the favorite eating establishments in northwest Prontera, where most of the population consisted of working middle-class citizens. The restaurant was large, having a common room that accommodated over 100 people and an outdoor seating area that accommodated 100 more. It was a favorite dinnerplace of families of younger Novices training in the nearby Novice Training Grounds when their parents picked them up after the schoolday. Tonight, raining cats and dogs, everyone was forced to cramp indoors. The common room was especially loud.

The clamor immediately died down to a hush, however, as everyone watched a blue-haired Nomad boy place an order for a bacon cheeseburger at the counter.

Shin-ju had placed his order five minutes ago, but the man at the counter was meticulously checking the coins that the boy had given him. Through a magnifier, he shot distrustful glances between the coins and Shin-ju.

Shin-ju swallowed. He peeked over his shoulder and saw the same distrustful look on every pair of eyes in the tavern.

The man at the counter handed Shin-ju a bag. “Here’s your order,” he said cheerlessly. “Now get outta here ‘fore everyone loses their appetites.”

Shin-ju’s eyes were wide. “Do you say the same thing to all your customers?”

“Beat it!”

Shin-ju hurriedly left the tavern’s common room and stood under its entrance canopy. Sighing, he looked at the pouring rain.

“And I thought the weather was cold,” he mumbled to himself.

He waited for a few minutes for the rain to weaken, but gave up after it showed no signs of letting up. He lifted the hood of his raincoat and started walking back to the HQ. He took a quieter side road, away from the main street, in order to avoid any other confrontations.

Shin-ju took notice of a water channel beside the road. The water was roaring. The water channel was a part of a drainage system designed by Prontera's engineers to keep water runoff from Mt. Mjolnir from flooding Prontera. Beginning from behind Prontera, a main water channel split into three, one running along the west side of Prontera, another on the east side, and the last one under the Pronteran streets. The channels redirected the floodwaters to pass harmlessly around and under Prontera.

Shin-ju observed the churning water level. It was high, almost reaching the five-foot wire fence that separated the street from the water channel.

Sure is a storm, Shin-ju thought. If the rain gets any worse, Prontera is still gonna get flooded.

Shin-ju looked ahead and noticed four figures standing on a steel bridge over the water channel. As he passed by, he realized that they were girls, around his age.

Novices from the Training Grounds, he thought, recognizing the seal of the Academy on the girls’ raincoats and umbrellas. All of the girls were looking upstream, observing the water channel.

“Come on, guys, let’s go home!” the smallest girl, who had wavy red hair, pleaded over the roar of the water.

“We can’t!” replied their leader, a Payonese-looking girl with black hair clipped behind her head like a peacock's tail. “We need to pass our report tomorrow!”

“Yeah,” noted the tallest girl, who had long dark-blue hair. “Architect Angelo is gonna flunk us if we didn’t. I’d hate to spend another year in his class!”

“I told you we should have come here earlier!” the red-haired girl screamed again. “I'm getting wet!”

"We didn’t have a choice! It’s been raining all friggin’ week!” their leader called. She then turned to the fourth member of their group, a timid-looking girl who had short blonde hair. “Hey, Joanne, are you taking notes?”

Joanne nodded. “Um, yes…”

“Good. Let's just go and get this over with!”

Shin-ju walked past the bridge, watching the girls over his shoulder. The blonde-haired girl noticed him and turned to look at him. Quickly, Shin-ju turned away and walked on. Neither of them noticed a very large log floating in the water, rushing towards the bridge.

Shin-ju spun at the resounding crash of the log hitting and breaking the bridge’s solitary steel column. Losing its support, the bridge buckled and snapped at the middle. Umbrellas went flying.

Shin-ju stared at the scene in disbelief. The bridge hung by its end, its broken midsection in the churning water. Then when he heard the girls’ screams, he dropped his burger and sprinted towards the bridge.

The red-haired girl was screaming for help. She was the closest to the street, but the steel bridge was slippery and she couldn't climb up.

“Hang on!” their leader screamed as she held on to the arm of her blue-haired friend. The blonde-haired girl, ‘Joanne,’ was desperately holding on to the bridge railing with half her body in the churning water.

Shin-ju arrived at the end of the bridge. “Don't move! I’ll pull you out!” he shouted. The girls stopped screaming and stared, wide-eyed, at the blue-haired Nomad boy.

“He’s…” one of the girls began as Shin-ju took off his long coat.

“…a Nomad…”

Shin-ju held his coat by the hood and threw it across the gap, its bottom landing on the broken end of the bridge. “Use the railings!” Shin-ju shouted over the roaring water. “Climb up and grab the coat! I'll pull you across!”

The smallest girl hesitated, but obeyed. Slowly, and painfully, she crawled towards Shin-ju. After what seemed to be an eternity, she reached out and grabbed the end of Shin-ju's coat and held on as Shin-ju pulled her onto the street. She sat on the pavement in stunned relief.

Shin-ju threw his coat over the gap again. “Your turn!” he shouted. The blue-haired girl obeyed immediately, climbing, clutching the coat, and was pulled across the gap by Shin-ju. At that moment the bridge creaked loudly. The two girls remaining on the bridge screamed.

“Hang on! Don't let go!” Shin-ju screamed desperately, throwing his coat over the gap one more time. “Climb up!” he shouted at the leader.

The leader gritted her teeth as she climbed up and reached for Shin-ju's coat. As she grasped the coat, the worst of Shin-ju's fears came true—the bridge gave way. The hinges broke away from the stone pavement in loud crushing sounds. The leader managed to hold on to the coat, and Shin-ju quickly pulled her in. The two of them fell to the ground in a heap.

The blonde-haired girl screamed as she fell into the violent current.

“JOANNE!” the first two girls screamed in horror..

The blonde-haired girl was pulled under the water, then emerged screaming before going under again.

The leader looked on in stunned helplessness as her blonde-haired friend was swept downstream. “No…” she whispered, too horrified to move. She knew that, in the history of Prontera, no one had ever survived after falling into a flooded water channel.

• • •

To be continued

[Mikey]

...Yan lang muna. (IMG:style_emoticons/default/biggrin.gif)
I hope it's enough, though.
I'll come again and post the next Chapter-and-a-half next Thursday... and for those reading in advance in the other forums, I'll probably also have Chapter Seven ready by then.

Thanks for reading. (IMG:style_emoticons/default/wink.gif) It feels good to be posting here again.

[_J_]

Discussion thread is up! dun nlng tau mag post ng comments (IMG:style_emoticons/default/happy.gif) (para malinis itong thread na ito (IMG:style_emoticons/default/laugh.gif) ) /no1

link: http://ragnaboards.levelupgames.ph/index.php?showtopic=2592

[Mikey]

“Hey!”

She thought the words were coming from a dream.

“HEY!”

She moved her eyes to look around her. She saw rain hitting the pavement heavily, her two friends screaming and tearing at each other, and a blue-haired Nomad boy gripping her shoulders.

“CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

Reality struck her like a thunderbolt, and she bawled hysterically on Shin-ju's chest. The boy pushed her away and shook her vigorously.

“LISTEN TO ME!” Shin-ju shouted.

The girl stared.

“Do you know where the Chivalry HQ is?” he asked her breathlessly.

The girl nodded blankly.

“I want you to run there as fast as you can! Tell the Constables what happened! Tell them to help! Do you understand? DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

The girl nodded again. This time her mouth was closed and her eyebrows knotted in fearful determination.

Shin-ju jumped to his feet. “GO! NOW!”

The girl got up to her feet and started running blindly towards the HQ. Turning downstream, Shin-ju sprinted, trying not to lose sight of the girl in the water.

The girl was struggling to keep her head above the water. Judging by the way she was flailing her arms, Shin-ju could tell that she couldn’t swim. He had to do something before she went under one more time—he knew it might be the last time he’ll see her.

No other choice, Shin-ju thought desperately. I’ll have to do it…

Shin-ju picked up speed and leaped using his left foot. As his right foot landed on the top frame of the wire fence, Shin-ju gathered all his strength to jump—as high and as far as he could—into the churning waters.

The blonde-haired girl saw his figure in mid-air, looking down at her, before the water pulled her under one more time.

• • •

Mikieru stopped in his tracks. He had been walking through an upper level hallway that overlooked the HQ gatehouse. A young black-haired girl was staggering through the gates, an expression of pain and anguish plastered on her face.

“Sentries!” Mikieru called out.

For a moment he waited for anyone to emerge from the gatehouse or the battlements to answer the distress call. No one was there.

“SENTRIES!” The Cleric called out again, this time angrily.

By this time, the girl had fallen onto the hard, wet grounds, and Mikieru wasted no time in leaping over the hallway’s railing. The Cleric fell three stories and landed heavily on his feet. He ran towards the girl and gently lifted her off the ground, his large shoulders covering her face from the rain. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

“Help…” she managed to say.

“Are you all right?” Mikieru asked. “What is wrong?”

“Please… help…” the girl was gasping now. “My… friend… water… can’t… swim…”

“Your friend? Where is your friend? Tell me.”

“Friend… call… con… Constable… help.”

Mikieru couldn’t make out what she was saying until one word escaped her lips.

“…Nomad.”

Mikieru’s face tightened. Slowly he leaned forward and whispered: “Where?”

The girl sighed as she closed her eyes again. “West Water Channel.”

Mikieru took her in his arms and carried her into the Stables. He threw a towel over her after he lay her down on a haystack and ran to his Peco-Peco's stable. As he rode out towards the HQ's exit, he saw the large alarm bell that Sentinels used to announce an emergency in the city. Mikieru took out his mace and, as he rode by, landed a perfectly-timed smash. The bell tolled loudly. Jake, Rico and Marcello rushed out of the Stables, bewildered, coming out soon enough just to see Mikieru and his Peco-Peco ride at full-speed out of the gates.

• • •

Shin-ju lifted the blonde-haired girl to the surface of the water, and she drew in a ragged breath. Shin-ju found the water surface too turbulent—he couldn’t stay above for long. The girl held on to Shin-ju tightly as the water swept them downstream with incredible ferocity.

Shin-ju tried to swim towards the side of the channel, but the sloping stone banks offered little friction. He couldn't climb up the banks and he couldn't reach far enough to touch the wire fence.

I gotta do something before we reach the lake! he thought. He knew that the West Water Channel terminated at a lake in the evergreen fields south of Prontera. The plants and vines that grew at its delta would be a deathtrap for both of them.

While Shin-ju desperately tried to think of a way out, he saw the cone of Prontera’s southwest turret approaching. They were already well past the central districts of Prontera and were going to reach the lake soon. Shin-ju knew he had no other choice…

“Joanne… Joanne!” he called.

The girl looked at him, her eyes red.

“I need you to do something for me! At the count of three, blow all the air out of your lungs!”

The girl froze.

“Trust me! It's our only chance!” Shin-ju pleaded.

The girl reluctantly nodded.

And the two of them looked ahead.

• • •

“One…” Shin-ju started.

The girl fidgeted.

“Two…” Shin-ju continued.

The girl held him tightly.

• • •

“Trust me, Joanne…” Shin-ju whispered.

• • •

“THREE!”

The two kids blew out all the air they had in them, and they sank under the surface.

In the silence of the water, they drifted downwards. Shin-ju closed his eyes, moving his feet, waiting for them to touch the bottom of the water channel. There were several drifting pieces of wood in the water, scratching their backs and knocking them around in their descent. Soon, they could hear nothing but the gurgle of the flowing undercurrent and the pounding of their own hearts.

When his lungs were about to burst, Shin-ju felt his feet touch the surface.

NOW!

After a moment, Shin-ju came flying out of the water, a bluish-white aura enveloping his body and the girl’s arms around his neck. The boy looked down as he descended, one of his hands leaving the girl’s back and reaching out for the top frame of the wire fence. He caught it—but he lost his footing on the slippery banks. His hand hung on the pipe frame defiantly. The girl was unconscious. With half of their bodies in the water, the current threatened to pull them in again.

Shin-ju's lungs were aching. There was a bloody gash above his left eye, caused by some rough-edged wood that he barreled through on the way to the surface.

No… Shin-ju whispered, losing consciousness. I… wasn’t… strong enough…

Slowly his fingers slipped from the frame, until they finally let go.

• • •

Mikieru rode along the banks of the West Water Channel, eyes desperately looking for any sign of Shin-ju. He had been tearing downstream for five agonizing minutes. He was running out of time. The Cleric prayed quietly that he would not greet the next morning by fishing out the corpses of two kids from the lake.

He was about to reach Prontera’s southwest turret when he saw, downstream, a glowing patch of water. Mikieru stared for a moment. He recognized the hue of the glow.

Then he saw the glowing patch explode into a plume, with the all-too-familiar form of Shin-ju flying out. He watched as Shin-ju caught the pipe rail on his way down and almost fall back in.

Shin-ju had jumped out of the water.

• • •

Instead of feeling water rushing up to meet him, Shin-ju felt a firm grasp on his wrist. He opened his eyes and saw Mikieru’s gloved hand. The Cleric was leaning over the wire fence and pulling him in.

The Cleric took the two kids in his arms and laid them under a tree.

“She is breathing, Shin-ju,” Mikieru said, leaning over the girl. “She will be all right.”

Getting no answer, Mikieru looked at Shin-ju. He had lost consciousness. Mikieru stared thoughtfully at the sleeping boy.

He is certainly no Acolyte, he thought. And yet he knows of the Holy Arts. How?

Later, a few other Constables and an emergency crew from the hospital arrived at the scene.

• • •

An exhausted, shirtless Shin-ju sat on the ground outside the Prontera hospital, a towel draped over his shoulders. He shivered—he was burning up with fever. He winced as he pressed a bandage to his head wound. He thought of what he had done in the Water Channel and vaguely wondered if it really happened—and whether or not the girl survived.

“Hey.”

Shin-ju looked up towards the Emergency Department’s entrance. Mikieru walked out with a mug of hot milk and dry towels. “I thought you would need these.”

Shin-ju weakly took the mug. “Th-thanks, Senpai,” he answered, “but can I have a place to lie down, too?”

Mikieru glanced into the hospital lobby regretfully. Shin-ju understood right away.

“Yeah, yeah… I know,” Shin-ju sipped the hot drink. “No pets allowed.”

Mikieru said nothing. After watching the downcast boy for a few moments, the Cleric walked over and, to the boy’s surprise, took a seat on the ground and laid the dry towels on the ground between them.

“Here,” Mikieru offered, tapping his thigh with the back of his fingers. “Lie down. I’ll hold the bandage for you.”

Shin-ju was stunned for a short moment before he obeyed smilingly. He let go of his bandage and positioned his arms in a more comfortable position as he lay his head on his Senpai’s lap.

The boy closed his eyes and began to feel the tension leaving his muscles. Mikieru stared ahead.

“Shin-ju,” Mikieru called quietly after a long moment of silence.

Shin-ju opened his eyes slightly.

“Tell me who taught you the Blessing.”

The boy swallowed—not out of tension, but of a poignant remembrance. Slowly he explained.

“A Priestess taught me… long ago, in the Desert. I was the oldest boy in that orphanage, and I had to haul water, fix the roofs, stack the straw… the heaviest tasks. She taught me a simple way to enhance my strength a little so I could finish my chores before dark. I… I developed the skill on my own after I left.”

Mikieru nodded. “And the name of this Priestess?”

“M-Matilda,” Shin-ju answered. “We called her Mother Matilda.”

The Cleric’s lips tightened. “Perhaps she did not know…”

“She knew,” the boy interjected in defense of the Priestess. “She knew that teaching the Holy Arts to those not of the Church was prohibited by its laws. But she seemed to put a lot of faith in me—enough to teach me the Blessing, and she even…”

Shin-ju’s voice trailed off, as if severed by a painful thought.

“I’m sorry, Senpai,” Shin-ju said. “I only used it because I had no other choice.”

Again, there was silence between the two. Shin-ju closed his eyes, if only to keep the fear in his chest from rising.

“Shin-ju,” Mikieru began in a meaningful tone. “I have been thinking about what you said to me earlier tonight. You believed that the mere absence of good people allow all this evil to exist.”

Shin-ju kept his eyes closed as the Cleric continued.

“I believed the very same thing in my Acolytehood. Since then, however, I have gotten so caught up in my own struggles that I had forgotten this simple truth. And you, in a single night, reminded me of what I had taken for granted for so long.”

At this, Shin-ju opened his eyes. Mikieru was looking ahead, staring into the wretched blight of the rain-drenched Fort City beyond the hospital grounds.

“You opened my eyes, Shin-ju,” Mikieru intoned. “You made me realize what was missing… in my life and the lives of all these people… these wanderers with no direction, who spend their lifetimes choosing the lesser of two evils day by day. What we need… is you.”

Shin-ju’s eyes widened.

“It goes well beyond what you are gathering at this point,” the Cleric said, reaching into his inside coat pocket. “These people do not need vigilantes saving them from thieves and murderers and flooded Water Channels. They need young people like you to look up to… to show them the right directions to take… to show them what goodness is all about.”

Mikieru drew out a bracelet with a small cross and ten wooden beads. Shin-ju swallowed again. This was an Acolyte’s Rosary, the token that Priests gave aspiring Acolytes as a symbol of Apprenticeship—and Mikieru was giving it to him.

Shin-ju took the rosary in his fingers and held it over his head, staring at it intently.

“Are you up to the challenge, Shin-ju?”

Shin-ju’s eyes turned away from the bracelet in his fingers. “Do you really believe I’m capable of all that?” he whispered in reply.

Before Mikieru could answer, a nurse came out of the lobby.

“Excuse me,” she said, glancing at Shin-ju, “She’s asking to see you.”

• • •

Mikieru walked behind Shin-ju as he followed the nurse into the lobby, up the stairs, and into a small hospital room. The girl was awake. She was lying in a warm bed with white sheets. Her hair was ruffled and her lower lip had a small cut, but she looked fine—she was alive.

Two adults, who Mikieru guessed to be the girl’s parents, her three friends, and another nurse stood at her bedside. Her father held her hand. When the girl saw Shin-ju, she smiled faintly and raised her other hand slightly, motioning him to come closer.

Mikieru stood by the door as Shin-ju approached. The father reluctantly moved aside as Shin-ju reached her bedside. The mother cast a worried look at the shirtless Nomad who slowly held her daughter’s hand with both of his.

“What’s your name?” the girl whispered.

Looking into her eyes, the boy answered with a name that she would never forget for the rest of her life.

“My name is Shin-ju.”

The girl smiled, tears forming in her eyes. “Thank you… Shin-ju.”

Mikieru looked around the room. He noted the grateful, almost mischievous smirks on the faces of the girl’s three friends. He saw the nurses trying hard not to grin. He saw the frowns on the faces of the girl’s parents slowly give way to approving smiles.

Then Mikieru remembered Shin-ju's last question, the one he wasn’t able to answer.

This, the Cleric thought, is a good start.

[Mikey]

Chapter Two
Wycrow The Merchant

“Thanks, pal. You’re the best.”

The young Merchant thanked his sleepy-eyed buyer as cheerily as he could in the midnight chill. It was May, the middle of summer, and the fact that the weather was supposed to be warmer now than during the rest of the year did little to coax the Merchant from under his hood.

He knew that people were looking for him, even here in the Capital of the Northern Realms. He knew better than to be indoors at an Inn somewhere—to stay at one spot was too dangerous. He had only stopped here one night ago. At first he vended on the streets in one of the northerly districts. Now, on his second night, he was at Merchant’s Alley, fervently hoping to get lost in the crowd.

Fatigue was setting over him. He hadn’t been able to catch much sleep, not with the constant worry of being found. He knew that no place was safe for him until he managed to get to Payon. There, he would be safe. There, he would be able to find help.

The Merchant closed his eyes, thinking of a dearly loved one. Even the thought of her tortured him now. Until he reached Payon, she would be in danger.

Napolde…

• • •

The Merchant’s eyes shot open. He wasn’t sure how long he had been half-asleep, but he hadn’t noticed the long silence until it was too late. Already, the small street where he vended was deserted.

Damn! the Merchant thought, frantically getting up and gathering his wares into a red bag on his cart.

“You didn't think you could escape us so easily, did you, Wycrow?”

The Merchant did not look behind him. He knew he had been found.

“Leaving the Machine City was a big mistake,” the voice continued. “Especially after you promised you’d hand it over two days ago.”

The Merchant closed the zipper on his bag and straightened.

“Oh, running away again?” the voice laughed. “You can’t escape us, Wycrow. Hand over the relic and we’ll let you and your Elf-bitch go.”

The Merchant dropped his bag on the curb, and the six masked men behind him waited for him to surrender.

“If you do anything to her…” the Merchant warned.

The six men knotted their brows.

“…tell Garrione he’ll never see it again!”

Quickly, the Merchant took his cart by its handles and flung it wildly. The Cart hit two of the men and narrowly missed their leader. Grabbing his bag of wares, the Merchant jumped up and ran through the opening created by his Cart.

Fuming, the leader screamed at his subordinates. “Get up! After him!”

The Merchant ran through the empty streets, red bag on his back, with the six men in pursuit. One of them threw a dagger at him and as he tried to enter an alley. The dagger struck the wall in front of the Merchant's face, stopping him in his tracks.

“It’s hopeless, Wycrow!” the masked man screamed. “Give it up!”

The Merchant hesitated, but decided to run through the alley and into the slums. Cursing, the other men resumed their pursuit.

Merchant ran through filthy alleys and up over the roofs of the shanties until he reached the West Water Channel. He slowed as he approached a bridge in the Channel. He was exhausted—the escape had lasted five minutes. He ran into the middle of the unlighted bridge and ducked, hoping to lose his pursuers in the darkness.

“You always were a hard bargain.”

Shocked, the Merchant turned and saw three of the men waiting across the bridge. Behind him stood the other three. He was trapped.

“You leave us no choice,” growled the leader. “Kill him!”

His five subordinates screamed and rushed towards the Merchant, daggers in deadly aim.

Desperately the Merchant looked over the railing. The past few days have been sunny, but water runoff from Mt. Mjolnir was still flowing in the Channel.

I have to do this! the Merchant thought, steeling himself for the plunge.

“What the—?” the leader muttered, dumbfounded, as the Merchant jumped over the railing and fell into the water. “Is he trying to kill himself?”

The Merchant surfaced and, using his bag as floatation, kept his head above the water as the current swept him down.

“After him!” the leader screamed. His five subordinates made the move to jump into the water, but a high-pitched whistle stopped them before they could jump over the railings.

The Occultist leader looked in dismay at the lantern lights headed towards the bridge. Some Constables had heard the commotion and were trying to see what was going on.

“Damn, it’s the Constables. Everybody split!” the leader whispered. The six masked men ran away in different directions.

The Merchant held on desperately to his bag as the violent current tried to pull him under. His strength was failing fast, and it was only a matter of time before he passed out.

• • •

Shin-ju yawned.

The rising sun reflected in the lake’s rippling water, stinging his painful sleepy eyes. Blinking, he turned to his side and cast his fishing pole towards an area of the lake that didn’t shimmer so much.

Shin-ju was in the evergreen fields south of Prontera. The Constabulary had tasked him to head into Merchant’s Alley to buy Yellow Potion, since the crime lab’s medical supplier hadn’t showed up the previous week. There seemed to be a shortage in Al de Baran, where most of the precious yellow herbs were grown—Shin-ju had no luck finding any Yellow Potion in the Alley either.

Shin-ju had decided not to return to the Constabulary until he found some Yellow Potion. That was the reason why he decided to wander outside Prontera’s massive walls and catch some fish for breakfast—he wasn’t given any pocket money when he set out yesterday morning.

Lazily, the boy lay on the grass with one arm curled under his head. Being outside the city gave him an unexpected feeling of nostalgia. He was surprised to realize that, although he had only been working as a janitor for five months, he had almost forgotten what it was like to be on the road, away from people and the cares of society.

His pole gave a jerk. Judging by the strength of the pull, Shin-ju knew the fish was big enough. Expertly, he pulled out the one-pound trout, unhooked it, and put it in his basket.

That's two, he thought. One more and I'm all set.

He cast his fishing pole one more time. Before the line entered the water, something shiny caught his eye. It was strange to see something that shone in a dark part of the lake.

Shin-ju stuck his pole into the soft ground and walked towards the object. He rolled up his pants and waded in the shallow water. Bending over, he reached for the object and drew it out.

It was a small glass vial, still corked, containing a thick yellowish liquid.

Yellow Potion? Shin-ju thought, surprised. What’s Yellow Potion doing here?

The boy looked into the water around his feet and found several other corked vials strewn along the muddy bank.

Shin-ju waded along, collecting all the vials he could find. The trail led to a nearby corner of the lake, under the shade of a tree. He waded into it and gathered more vials into his shirt.

Then he stopped. On the shore, slumped on his face, was an unconscious tan-haired man. A red bag lay open in the water, with vials scattered around it. Shin-ju dropped the vials he was carrying and rushed over to the man's side. He checked for the man's pulse and found it beating weakly. The man was breathing.

What happened to him? Shin-ju wondered. At that moment the man stirred.

“Hey, you OK?” Shin-ju asked. The man mumbled something incoherent.

“Mister, are you all right?” Shin-ju pressed.

“Back… hurts…” the man whispered. “Don't touch me…”

“Mister, you gotta get out of the water or you’ll get sick.”

“I’m OK… don't worry… just let me lie here for a while… I’m too tired…”

“OK. I’ll gather up your belongings while you—”

Shin-ju never finished. The man jumped up to his feet at the sound of the word “belongings.” Shin-ju backed off, surprised.

“Where is it? Have I lost it?” screamed the man, patting frantically at his coat pockets.

“I, uh…” Shin-ju began after a moment’s hesitation. “I found a few vials of Yellow Potion… they might be yours. They’re in the water over there…”

At that, the man dove into the water and searched on all fours. To Shin-ju’s puzzlement, the man ignored the vials of Yellow Potion and instead drew out rocks. Every time he drew one out, however, he threw it over his shoulder like some worthless bauble. He seemed to be looking for something else, although Shin-ju wondered what could have been more important in Prontera than some fresh Yellow Potion at this point.

Then, as abruptly as he started, the man stopped. Shin-ju watched as the man drew something out of the water with both hands. Then the man got to his feet and slowly turned around to look at Shin-ju.

Their eyes met for a moment. Then the man closed his eyes and fell into the water.

“Hey!” Shin-ju yelled, jumping in the water. “You’ll drown!”

The man was unconscious when Shin-ju reached him, but his hands were stubbornly clinging on a smooth gray rock.

• • •

The campfire crackled, filling the air with the smell of smoked fish. The man’s shirt and coat hung on a low tree branch nearby, drying. Shin-ju sat beside the fire, fanning it and watching the man’s sleeping form.

Shin-ju had not divested the man of his rock. The most he had allowed himself to do was to take it from the man’s hands and lay it beside his unconscious form where he would immediately find it upon waking. Still, it intrigued the boy why the man paid no attention to the precious vials of Yellow Potion in the water.

At that moment, the man woke up. He quickly sat up and found the rock. He scooped it up and held it in a bundle with both hands. Shin-ju heard the man sigh in relief.

Then the man surveyed his surroundings. He saw the campfire, the boy cooking the trout, his clothes hanging on the branch, and his bag of wares at his feet.

“Morning,” Shin-ju greeted. “Breakfast?”

The Merchant stared at Shin-ju’s blue hair. “Uh… sure.”

Shin-ju picked up one of the trouts by the end of the thin twig stuck through it and handed it to the man, who took it and eagerly began eating.

“Say, mister,” Shin-ju started, “what were you doing in the water?"

The man looked down, thinking of the night past.

No, he thought, I don’t want to involve anyone else in this…

The man looked up and laughed sheepishly. “Aw, sorry I gotcha worried, kid. I guess I got drunk last night and fell into the lake.”

“You were drinking… out here? All alone?”

The man felt a bead of sweat trickle down the back of his head. “W-well, actually, uh… I was with the rest o’ my caravan from Alberta. We didn’t reach Prontera in time before the gates closed, so we decided to camp out here,” he stammered. “The guys must’ve played a joke on me, leaving me out here. I’m gonna kill those jokers!”

The man began laughing loudly and awkwardly. Shin-ju nodded slowly, almost believing.

“Well anyway, thanks for helpin’ me out, kid… what’s your name?”

“Shin-ju.”

“Shin-ju what?”

“Just Shin-ju.”

“Really? No family name?”

Shin-ju looked away. “I’m afraid not.”

"Aw, I totally understand. I mean, why give your name to some drunk y’ just fished outta the lake, right? Anyway, lemme introduce myself. I’m Jared Wycrow. I’m on a business trip from the Machine City, Al de Baran.”

The Merchant leaned forward, offering his hand. Shin-ju shook it reluctantly.

“I, uh…” Shin-ju began. “I thought you said you were from Alberta.”

Jared froze. “Did I… did I say that?” the Merchant laughed again, scratching his head and pretending he had lost his bearings. “I guess I’m still a little woozy from last night’s session. I am from Alberta. I just used to do a lotta business in Al de Baran, I guess.”

Shin-ju glanced at the sky and decided he wasn’t going to wait for the Merchant to explain himself.

“Listen, Mr. Wycrow,” Shin-ju said as he finished his trout. “I’m sorta running out of time here. I need to buy twenty vials of Yellow Potion right away, so could I make a purchase from you and be off?”

“Ah, sure, kid!” Jared answered, opening his bag of wares. “1,000 zenny per vial.”

Shin-ju stopped. “1,000?” he blurted out. “I thought the shelf price was 720 zenny.”

“Supply and demand, Shin-ju,” Jared explained. “You can’t take market fluctuations lightly, y’know. The equilibrium price should roll with the punches.”

The boy didn’t answer right away. “Huh?” was all he could say.

Jared looked up. “Aw, maybe I didn’t mention it earlier. I’m a Merchant, and my expertise is Trade.”

“Uh… Trade?”

“Yeah, Trade,” the Merchant replied, standing up as if about to give a lecture. “Trade is the buying and selling of goods and services. Trade occurs all the time ‘cause people need and want things that others produce or services others perform.”

Shin-ju bit his lip stupidly while the Merchant continued.

“People must have such necessities as food, clothing, and shelter. They also want many other things that make life convenient and pleasant. They want such goods as books, bikes, and oil. They want such services as Peco carriage rides, theater shows, and the Kafra mail service. As individuals, people cannot produce all the goods and services they want. Instead, they receive money for the goods and services they produce for others. They then use the money to buy the things they want but do not produce.”

Shin-ju half-heartedly pushed the wad of money in his hand towards Jared. “Uh, OK… so I guess…”

“Wait, lemme finish,” Jared interjected, clearly enjoying himself. “Trade has contributed greatly to the advance of civilization, my friend! As Merchants like me travel from region to region across the face of Midgard, we helped spread civilized ways of life! We the Traders carried the ideas and inventions of various cultures over the age-old trade routes. The mixing of civilized cultures made Midgard the great continent it is today.”

The Merchant brushed his tan hair aside as he looked down at Shin-ju. “So, you were saying?”

Shin-ju shrugged. “So I guess I gotta haggle.”

Jared laughed, liking the boy more and more by the minute. “Kid, you’re really something else.”

• • •

“You managed to survive, Wycrow?”

Jared and Shin-ju wheeled around. Four men in capes and leather armor stood in the field. Each of them wore a red bandana.

“Aw, crap!” Jared gasped, instinctively patting the coat pocket where he had put his beloved rock. “It’s them!”

“Occultists,” Shin-ju observed quietly, recognizing the bandanas.

The four Occultists fanned out around Jared and Shin-ju, blocking out any opportunity of escape.

“They’re after me,” Jared and Shin-ju said together. “…They’re after you?”

“Hey,” one of the Occultists said, pointing at Shin-ju. “Isn’t that the Nomad-bastard who beat up Crush and Sly?”

“Sure looks like it!” one of his companions answered. “That’s the blue hair they were talkin’ about! So he’s in cahoots with Wycrow, eh?”

“Two birds with one stone,” hissed the third Occultist, who seemed to be the group’s leader. He removed a gemmed ring from his finger as he turned to the fourth Occultist. “Tell the boss that Wycrow been found outside Prontera. Make sure the news gets to him.”

“Right!” the fourth Occultist answered, taking his superior’s gemmed ring. He turned on his heels and sprinted towards the City Gates.

Jared glanced at Shin-ju as the three thugs closed in on them. “Why are the Occultists after you?”

“I got into a fight with two of their members four months ago,” Shin-ju explained, assuming a passive defensive stance. “Mr. Wycrow, can you fight?”

Jared swallowed and shook his head.

“I guess it’s up to me, then…” Shin-ju said, steeling himself for the imminent battle. He wished, regretfully, that Mikieru were with him at this moment.

• • •

To be continued

[Mikey]

Shin-ju assessed the two armored Occultists who approached and the caped Occultist who stayed back. He determined that the one who stayed back was their ringleader, but he couldn’t assess what weapon he was carrying. He was sure, though, that the two Occultists who approached carried two-handed Broadswords and knew how to attack together.

“Shin-ju, there are three of them!” Jared whispered. “We gotta run!”

“We can’t,” Shin-ju whispered back. “We’re surrounded. Just stay behind me, Mr. Wycrow.”

Shin-ju walked forward, an intense look in his gray eyes. He stopped when he was standing between the first two Occultists.

“I think I know why you’re after me,” Shin-ju announced. “But what grudge do you have against Mr. Wycrow?”

The caped Occultist smirked. “We’re only participating in his area of expertise: Trade."

Shin-ju squinted defiantly.

“I’ll show you. I am going to propose a trade right now.” The caped Occultist stepped forward. “We want Mr. Wycrow, and you want to stay alive. If you hand him over, we'll leave you alone.”

“You haven't answered my question,” Shin-ju deadpanned.

The caped Occultist's smirk faded. “All right, damn it, I’ll tell you. Mr. Wycrow has something we want, and we have something he wants. We're only pursuing that trade.”

Shin-ju eyed the two swordsmen who flanked him. “Then that’s no reason for you to draw your swords.”

An angry look came over the caped Occultist's face. “Look, Nomad-bastard, either accept our trade offer or we do this the hard way.” The two swordsmen raised their swords, eyes on Shin-ju.

“If I were to guess,” Shin-ju said, shifting his left foot behind him and assuming a passive defensive stance, “You’re holding someone hostage.”

Jared stared at Shin-ju, stunned by the boy’s intuition.

The Occultist leader knotted his brow. “How did you—”

“I know the look of someone who hurts his enemies by hurting the people they love,” Shin-ju answered simply. “I’ve seen it too many times. And I see it now in your eyes. This is not Trade—this is demanding ransom!”

“SHUT UP, BOY!” the caped Occultist shouted, pointing a gloved hand at Jared. “Our last offer stands!”

“How’s this?” Shin-ju said, preparing to state the obvious. “If you can get past me, he’s yours.”

Shin-ju raised his hand in a receiving gesture, simultaneously a sign of acceptance if the Occultists refused his terms, and a sign of challenge if they agreed.

“Fine,” the caped Occultist answered. “You asked for it, fool.”

Instantly the two Occultists with Broadswords charged towards Shin-ju, swords aimed, eyes with murderous intent.

“SHIN-JU!” Jared screamed.

In a flash, Shin-ju leaped forward towards the first of the swordsmen, ran low, skidded under the sword blade, turned, and jumped in the prelude of a flying roundhouse kick, aimed at the back of the swordsman's head.

Suddenly the first swordsman lurched his head forward and bent down to roll on the ground. As Shin-ju's foot swung in, it met the padded shoulder of the second swordsman, who jumped in to block the kick.

“What the—” Shin-ju thought, astonished.

After blocking Shin-ju's kick, the second swordsman delivered a backhand swing of his broadsword, aimed at Shin-ju's exposed neck. Quickly, Shin-ju pushed off the swordsman's shoulder pad to execute a backflip, evading the sword swing by inches. Shin-ju flipped backwards once more and knelt down, disbelieving that his attack was thwarted.

“You seriously did not believe it would be that easy, did you?” the caped Occultist sneered as he watched the battle from afar. “Hilt and Skull both know that to separate them is the only way they could be defeated. And with their level of skill in fighting together, they're not going to be defeated by anyone.”

Shin-ju gritted his teeth.

“You should have accepted our trade offer, Nomad,” the caped Occultist mocked as Hilt and Skull regrouped for another attack. “We would have kept our word, you know.”

At that instant, the two swordsmen attacked again in the same way as before, fanning out then charging in.

Shin-ju stepped towards Hilt, the first swordsman, to meet his attack first. As the sword thrust came, Shin-ju sidestepped, turned and threw a back-fist aimed at Hilt’s jaw. Again, Hilt carelessly leaned forward and rolled on the ground, while Skull came in and parried Shin-ju’s attack.

Skull thrust his sword towards Shin-ju’s chest. Shin-ju leaned backwards, planting his hand on the ground to deliver a rising high kick. This time, Skull rolled backwards. Shin-ju lost his balance and fell on his back. As Skull moved out of the way, Hilt leaped over his partner to deliver a two-handed downward smash.

Shin-ju rolled to his side quickly, avoiding the blade as it hit the ground, embedding itself six inches into the soil. Shin-ju rolled backwards and knelt, watching the two swordsmen regroup.

They’re too fast, Shin-ju thought desperately. If this keeps up, Jared will be…

Shin-ju glanced back at Jared, who was hiding behind a tree, watching the battle worriedly. Then he noticed something on Jared that he had not noticed before—a small-gemmed pendant hanging around his neck.

Kitsune-Senpai… Shin-ju thought slowly, reminded of Mikieru’s silver cross.

• • •

Mikieru sneezed.

Rubbing his nose, he thought it was strange that the rainy weather didn't affect his health at all, while a sunny day such as this irritated his nose. He forgot about it as he reached the storage room where Shin-ju stayed.

“Shin-ju! Get up, sleepyhead!” Mikieru called from outside the utility room. Getting no response, he turned the knob and looked inside. “It is not Sunday. You cannot sleep in like it was—”

Mikieru stopped. The room was empty.

“Hm?” Mikieru looked around the bare room. “He has not returned yet?”

“Makimachi?” a voice called from the hallway.

“I am here,” Mikieru called back, still looking into the room.

“Your Peco-Peco’s ready. Patrol shifts in 15 minutes.”

“Yes, I will be there.”

Mikieru took one last look at the empty room before he closed the door, wondering where Shin-ju was.

• • •

Jared shivered as he watched Shin-ju desperately avoiding Hilt and Skull’s dual attack strategy. The sight of the two swordsmen bearing down on the young boy was too much for him. Now, he stared at Shin-ju's kneeling form in front of him, breathing heavily.

I didn't want this, Jared thought. I didn't want anyone else to get involved…

Then he saw Shin-ju look at the gemmed pendant around his neck. He saw intense concentration on his eyes—concentration that turned into understanding a moment before Shin-ju turned back to face his attackers.

Shin-ju got back on his feet and shifted his left foot behind him. Then he raised his right hand in front of his face in a praying gesture. His eyes were closed.

“Give it up, boy,” the caped Occultist called. “It is hopeless.”

Shin-ju maintained his passive defense stance, his eyes still closed.

The caped Occultist turned to Hilt and Skull. “Finish him.”

Hilt and Skull fanned out and charged one more time.

Shin-ju opened his eyes and lunged towards Hilt. Hilt swung his sword. Again, Shin-ju skidded under the blade and turned and jumped.

The boy is getting desperate, the caped Occultist observed as he watched Shin-ju's familiar tactic. Hilt rolled forward and Skull moved in to block Shin-ju's kick.

Suddenly Shin-ju spun, planted his feet on the ground—and vanished from Skull's sight.

“What in the—” Skull growled, shocked that his shoulder pad met no impact.

“Ch—?!” the caped Occultist managed to spit in surprise before a loud crack resounded across the field.

Skull flew forward and skidded face down on the ground as Shin-ju’s flying roundhouse kick hit him behind his head.

“Divided, they fall,” Shin-ju noted simply as he landed on the ground.

Cursing, Hilt sprang to his feet and thrust his sword towards Shin-ju’s spine.

Twirling, Shin-ju dodged the thrust, grabbing Hilt’s sword arm and yanking it forward. Hilt lost his balance and tipped forward. Shin-ju leaped into the air, spun once, and landed an elbow strike at Hilt’s nape. Hilt’s face slammed into the ground as Shin-ju landed on his feet, panting.

Jared and the caped Occultist stared at Shin-ju in wonder. His speed had increased dramatically, allowing him to catch Hilt and Skull off-guard and separate them. Then the caped Occultist saw Shin-ju's hands.

They had a bluish-white glow.

Blessing? the caped Occultist thought in a rage. Impossible!

“Awright, Shin-ju! That was awesome!” Jared yelled, pumping his fist in the air.

Shin-ju rushed towards the isolated Skull with break-neck speed. Fuming, Skull lunged forward and delivered a wild backhand slash. Shin-ju leaped over the swing, somersaulted three times in the air, and landed a flying heel kick on Skull’s forehead. Landing on the ground, Shin-ju delivered a full-moon roundhouse kick that hit Skull's bowed head. Skull flew sideways and skidded on the ground, knocked out.

Then Shin-ju lunged at Hilt. Wide-eyed, Hilt held his Broadsword forward in defense. Shin-ju was running so fast that Hilt could only see the dust rising off the ground where his feet landed. Hilt had never seen anything approach him in such speed—there was nothing he could do as Shin-ju ducked under his sword, grabbed the swordsman’s ears and pulled his head downwards to meet the boy’s rising knee.

Shin-ju’s knee hit Hilt between the eyes, knocking the swordsman off the ground. Then Shin-ju executed his favorite move—twisting in mid-air, lifting his leg, and landing a spinning back-kick in Hilt’s midsection. Hilt flew backwards and tumbled on the ground. He rolled a few times before lay still, unconscious.

Shin-ju fell on one knee, catching his breath. Using the potent Holy Art at such a young age taxed his stamina greatly.

The caped Occultist stared, wide-eyed, as Hilt and Skull lay unconscious on the ground. Then he looked at Shin-ju.

Who is this boy? he thought. How did he learn Blessing at his age? And where did he learn to fight like that? I've never seen that fighting style before.

Shin-ju looked up and stared at the caped Occultist.

“Impressive,” the caped Occultist announced. “I do not know how you learned a Priest skill at your age, but congratulations. You managed to defeat Hilt and Skull. I personally thought it was impossible.”

The caped Occultist pulled back one side of his cape. “My name is Sarth,” he continued. “What is yours, boy?”

Shin-ju slowly got up to his feet. “Shin-ju.”

“Well, Shin-ju, I’m sorry but you’ll have to face me this time,” Sarth announced, drawing out a long wooden staff from under his cape. “I have a mission and I will accomplish it…”

Sarth planted his staff on the ground and looked through its carved head.

“...even if I have to kill a prodigy such as you.”

Jared took one look at the head of Sarth's staff, which was carved into the shape of two bat's wings—and realized, horrified, what Sarth was trying to do.

“SHIN-JU!” Jared shouted. “This man is a Sorcerer! GET OUT OF THE WAY!”

Shocked, Shin-ju jumped sideways and guarded his face with his forearms as the air beside him swirled and exploded, spreading tongues of flame in all directions. The explosion was strong enough to knock Shin-ju off-balance and fall on his back.

Sarth, after missing on his first try, shifted his position while keeping his staff in the same place. Once again he stared at Shin-ju through the staff head and summoned another fire spell.

Shin-ju jumped to his feet and tried to jump backwards, but was too late. A second ball of fire exploded directly in front of him.

“Aaack!” Shin-ju rasped as he flew backwards, forearms crossed in front of his face, jacket sleeves scorched.

Shin-ju landed on his back and rolled on his side. Jared came out from behind the tree and ran to Shin-ju’s side.

“Shin-ju!” Jared yelled. Shin-ju lifted his head, struggling to get up.

Sarth smiled menacingly as he lifted the end of his staff off the ground and took a step forward.

• • •

To be continued

[Mikey]

Shin-ju struggled to get back on his feet.

He was in a huge disadvantage against Sarth. He had little stamina left after casting the Priest skill Blessing. He had never fought against a Sorcerer before. And he was wounded.

Shin-ju stood up and faced Sarth, shoulders slightly hunched. Sarth stopped moving forward.

Why didn’t Sarth finish me off while I was lying on the ground? Shin-ju pondered. Why did he approach?

Shin-ju watched intently as Sarth cautiously put the end of his staff down, beside his feet.

I get it… he can only cast his fire spell up to a certain range, he thought. After that he’ll have to get closer to his target. He looked at the scorched grass in front of him. If I were to guess… his range is thirty meters.

• • •

Sarth grinned, seeing Shin-ju's eyes move between him and the scorched grass. He's guessed it, he thought. He probably knows the spell's weakness. What he doesn't know...

Sarth placed his staff in front of him and peered through its head.

…is that it's also its greatest strength.

• • •

Jared looked on worriedly as Shin-ju steeled himself for another attack. Shin-ju planted his feet in the ground, clenched his fists, planned his angle of approach... and nodded to himself. He was ready.

In a flash, Shin-ju leaped forward, raising his right hand in front of him in a praying gesture. His hands glowed bluish-white.

BLESSING!

As Blessing took effect, he sprinted towards Sarth, dust and rocks flying off the ground where his feet landed.

Sarth waited until Shin-ju entered within range. Then, squinting his eyes, he cast his fire spell.

NAPALM!

The air in front of Shin-ju swirled and exploded into a fireball. Shin-ju timed it exactly and sidestepped, evading the blast radius. He resumed his sprint, eyes fixed on Sarth’s staff. He was twenty meters away from the Sorcerer.

Sarth grinned, baring his teeth in delight, as he shifted his position and cast another fire spell.

Too fast! Shin-ju thought in a flash. He had not expecting Sarth to recover so quickly.

Sarth yelled as he cast another fire spell. Shin-ju jumped hastily, avoiding the next, much larger fireball as the air behind him exploded.

Shin-ju noticed, too late, that the Sorcerer’s Napalm spell increased in power as the target came closer to the caster!

Shin-ju was ten meters away from Sarth. As he approached Sarth from the air, he drew back his right fist, glowing brightly, in the prelude of a punch aimed at Sarth's jaw.

Sarth knelt, laughing in glee, as he aimed at Shin-ju on the boy’s descent.

“No!” Shin-ju rasped, disbelieving Sarth's recovery speed. He threw his right arm forward and guarded his face.

The air between them exploded into a fireball that was much larger and stronger than the previous two. Shin-ju flew backwards, his body limp.

Shin-ju had been hit.

Sarth guffawed as he watched Shin-ju's body rise and fall backwards. “Pitiful! VERY PITIFUL, SHIN-JU!”

“Shin-ju!” Jared screamed, running forward to catch the boy’s body as it flew towards him. Jared fell as he caught Shin-ju, the two of them landing heavily on the ground.

Jared laid Shin-ju on the ground. The boy’s eyes were closed. His jacket was torn and scorched. His arms were badly burned. His mouth was opened slightly, as if the last memory of pain was preserved in it.

“Shin-ju! Hang in there!” Jared yelled desperately. Shin-ju wasn’t breathing.

Tears formed in Jared’s eyes. He stared at Shin-ju’s limp form at his knees. He closed his eyes mightily, cursing himself for getting the young boy involved in his affairs. “I’m sorry, Shin-ju…” he whispered.

Sarth gasped. The last Napalm spell took more of his energy than he expected it would. He fell on one knee, smiling in satisfaction at the sight of Jared cursing himself over Shin-ju's lifeless body.

“Such a spirited defense on your behalf, Wycrow,” Sarth announced. “I don’t know what came into him to fight for you like that, but it was for nothing. Now you know that you should have met our demands long ago.”

“Why…?” Jared whispered to himself, fighting back the tears. “Why’d this have to happen?”

“How many, Wycrow?” Sarth asked, slowly getting on his feet. “How many more people will you throw in front of you before you give Garrione what he wants?”

Jared didn't answer, but looked up at Sarth with defiant, teary eyes.

“Surely you will not give the relic up so easily after Shin-ju died for you,” Sarth continued, now on his feet. “But I haven't any time to waste."

Sarth approached to put Jared within his range. “I will get that relic even if I have to kill you right now.”

Jared stared at Sarth as the Sorcerer approached, then slowly looked down at Shin-ju.

“I’m sorry, Shin-ju,” he repeated, closing his eyes. “I’m so sorry...”

• • •

“So,” a soft female voice asked, “Found it yet?”

• • •

Shin-ju opened his eyes and exhaled.

Jared opened his eyes, surprised, and saw Shin-ju's face. Shin-ju's eyes were open, turned upwards in reminiscence. The boy’s mouth was closed, painless.

“Shin-ju!” Jared yelled, relieved.

Shin-ju sat up and shot a stunned Sarth with a determined look. It was almost as if Shin-ju had suddenly realized an obvious truth for the first time.

“I haven’t found it yet…” Shin-ju whispered to himself.

“This is impossible!” Sarth stammered, wide-eyed, as Shin-ju rose to his feet slowly. “I killed you!”

Shin-ju stepped forward easily. He approached Sarth in a relaxed pace, his eyes fixed on Sarth's frozen form. He stopped just outside Sarth's range.

Shin-ju managed a weak smile.

“Tenacious little punk,” Sarth cursed. “You just don't know when to quit, do you?”

Shin-ju raised right hand in front of his face in a praying gesture. It glowed bluish-white.

“Fine, damn it,” Sarth yelled, planting his staff on the ground and peering through its carved head. “Let’s see you get up after this one.”

“Shin-ju, be careful!” Jared shouted.

Shin-ju leaped forward and sprinted towards the Sorcerer, leaving a trail of rising dust. As he entered Sarth's spell range, he felt the air in front of him swirl. He pivoted his front leg, spun to his side, and ducked. The fireball exploded behind him.

Shin-ju clenched his fist and held it behind him, as if preparing to deliver a particularly powerful punch. He was twenty meters away when he felt the air in front of him swirl, much more forcefully than before. At the last moment, Shin-ju leaped upwards. The fireball exploded under him.

Sarth knelt as he watched Shin-ju fall towards him. Peering through the head of his staff, the Sorcerer began to summon another fire spell. You’re falling towards me in a straight line, Sarth thought. There’s no way you can dodge this one!

Shin-ju fell towards Sarth, his fist still drawn back. Sarth yelled as the air between them swirled in incredible force. Jared watched breathlessly.

Just before Sarth’s spell came into effect, Shin-ju opened his fist—and conjured a small ball of light over his palm.

NAPALM!

The fireball exploded with frightening force, shaking the ground and knocking Jared off his feet.

Suddenly, Sarth spotted Shin-ju falling towards him, the tongues of flame branching out behind the boy and giving him a powerful, frightful silhouette.

Shin-ju’s position had somehow changed in mid-air!

“It can't be—!” Sarth screamed.

Shin-ju landed on the ground and quickly assumed a low attacking stance. Swinging his right leg, he swept both of Sarth’s ankles and his staff at the same time. The staff went flying, and Sarth tipped sideways, grunting, his legs flying over his head.

In the same swift circular motion, Shin-ju planted his kicking leg on the ground and lifted his other leg upwards in a rising high kick. The kick hit Sarth in the midsection, launching him backwards.

Then Shin-ju went down on all fours and launched himself backwards in a reverse somersault.

“D-damn it!” Sarth managed to mutter, watching Shin-ju soar in front of him as he flew backwards.

As Sarth landed on his back on the ground, Shin-ju completed his somersault, fell, and planted both of his feet in the Sorcerer's gut in a finishing deathblow move. The rest of Sarth's body rose upwards, froze for a few seconds, then fell limp.

“Awesome…” Jared muttered, relieved.

Shin-ju stepped off Sarth’s midsection and stared at him. Sarth’s mouth was open, but he wasn’t breathing. Shin-ju knelt over Sarth’s body, curled his right hand into a fist and let it fall on Sarth’s chest.

Sarth coughed, sputtered, and resumed breathing. The Sorcerer was still unconscious.

Shin-ju got up and turned to Jared, smiling. “Are you OK, Mr. Wycrow?”

Jared grinned. “Shin-ju, that was am—” he stopped as he watched Shin-ju pitch forward and fall on his face, unconscious.

“Hey, Shin-ju!” Jared shouted, rushing over. “You OK? Shin-ju!”

• • •

Shin-ju woke up to a view of tree branches hanging high over him, silhouetted by a blue sky that was showing hints of orange. He felt grass on the palm of his hands and cool wind blowing through his hair. He was alive.

Shin-ju painfully got up on his elbows and looked around. He was in the threshold between the Pronteran Plains and the forests. To the west he saw the sun hanging over the horizon, silhouetting the towers and parapets of Prontera Fort City, a very long distance away.

“Hey, you’re awake!” Jared called, rushing over to his side. “How’re you feelin’?”

Shin-ju looked at Jared, then at the campfire crackling beside him. “Where am I?” he asked.

“We’re just outside Izlude Cape,” Jared answered. “Sorry I couldn’t take you to the hospital. I think the cities are a little unsafe for both of us at this point.”

“How long was I out?”

“Nine, maybe ten hours. You sure had me worried.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You saved my life,” Jared gratefully answered, helping the boy sit up against a tree trunk.

Shin-ju accepted Jared’s water canteen and drank greedily. Wiping his lips, he glanced back at the silhouette of the Fort City. “Mr. Wycrow,” he asked, “where are we going from here?”

Jared stopped. “We’re… we’re going to Payon. It’s the only place we can go to from here.”

“Payon?” Shin-ju asked, facing the Merchant when he heard the name.

“Yes,” Jared answered, straightening with a smile. “The magnificent Payon Fort City. You’ve never been there before?”

Shin-ju shook his head. “No, but I’ve… I’ve heard of it. What’ll we do there?”

“The Old Occultists operate only in Al de Baran Machine City and Prontera Fort City. Their operations are too shadowy to be carried out in Payon. The people there are… well, let’s say we Merchants don’t see it as a land of opportunity as much as we see Prontera. The people are generally more lawful and more honorable. Would y’believe they actually ban contraceptives there?”

The Merchant laughed uneasily at his own joke, but Shin-ju didn’t hear it. The boy’s attention was fixed on the first sentence that came out of Jared’s mouth.

“Why are the Old Occultists after you?” Shin-ju asked with a straight face.

Jared stopped laughing immediately. He looked at the boy and wondered what to say.

“I can’t tell you, Shin-ju,” Jared stammered finally. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry… I want to tell you, but…”

Shin-ju raised his hand in finality. “It’s OK, Mr. Wycrow. I think I know.”

Jared closed his mouth in understanding. During the battle, Shin-ju had guessed that the Old Occultists were holding someone special to Jared as a hostage for something. Jared, however, wondered if Shin-ju heard anything about a certain “relic”…

“Thanks, Shin-ju,” the Merchant whispered. “And please, from now on… call me Jared.”

Shin-ju smiled. “I’ll do that, Jared.”

Jared turned to look eastward. “I’ve a friend in Payon who could help us. He’s the only one I could trust on this matter…”

The boy nodded.

“I’m sure you’re gonna like it there. There’s a catch, though… It’s a six-day hike to Payon if we go by foot. You up to it, Shin-ju?"

For the third time, Shin-ju slowly turned his head to look at the silhouette of Prontera Fort City.

• • •

“So,” a soft female voice asked, “Found it yet?”

• • •

Shin-ju reached into his pant pocket and drew out his Acolyte’s Rosary. He still had not given Mikieru an answer. Not that he was ready to give one now, but a part of him desperately wanted to crawl back to Prontera and into the company of the man he trusted the most. At the same time, however, he thought of the voice that asked him if he had found what he was looking for—and felt, for some reason, that leaving Prontera and following Jared into Payon was the right thing to do.

The boy returned the Rosary into his pocket and took one last look at Prontera, whispering a silent apology to his Senpai.

“Shin-ju?” Jared asked, puzzled by the boy’s silence.

Shin-ju turned to Jared. “OK, Jared,” he said, smiling. “Let’s go to Payon.”

• • •

End of Chapter Two

[Mikey]

Chapter Three
Mikieru’s Inkling

Sean Garner was a Prefect in the Prontera Constabulary. He supervised a squad of Constables who mainly patrolled the northeasterly districts of the Fort City, a generally peaceful section. A skilled and intelligent Knight, he rose quickly through the ranks of the Constabulary, earning his Prefect’s Pin after serving only two years as Constable. He was the youngest Prefect in the force, only being 26 years old, and had a reputation for being a discipline freak.

It wasn’t a flaw. Sean held a black belt in the Payonese swordfighting style known as Komichi Na Ryuuki, and spent his morning shifts teaching Combat part-time at the Novice Training Grounds. Instead of having the usual service-issued two-edged broadsword strapped onto his belt, he carried with him his own Katana blade—the curved, one-edged sword originating from the Oriental continents. Among his peers, there was no other Northfolk who could handle the near-perfect sword with better skill.

Today was a Wednesday, and part of his daily routine was to teach two Combat classes in the morning in the Academy before heading to the Constabulary for lunch at the cafeteria. His patrol squad worked the swing shift, so he wasn’t expecting to officially be on the clock until four hours from now.

One could imagine his surprise when, halfway through his hamburger, he received an urgent request to meet his friend, Constable Mikieru Makimachi, at Interrogation Room 3.

• • •

“Hey, Mike,” Sean called, seeing Mikieru standing outside the door of Interrogation Room 3. “What’s up?”

Mikieru turned to face the Prefect. “Hello, Sean,” he answered. “I need you to do me a favor.”

Sean took one look through the Interrogation Room’s glass door and sighed. A man sat alone in the room, his hands on the table. He had a black coat, a red bandana, and a bloody nose. Despite the pained look in the man’s closed mouth, his dark eyes stared defiantly into space.

“OK, Mike, spill it,” Sean exhaled. “What did you do this time?”

“I was looking for someone in Merchant’s Alley when I saw this guy steal a trader’s Peco-peco right from under the poor guy. He began riding north, up the avenue, almost running over some kids. He was obviously in a hurry, but for sure it was not for stealing the Peco. Occultists aren’t petty thieves by pride.”

The Knight nodded dubiously. “And where did he get the bloody nose?”

“I dismounted him as he passed me by,” Mikieru answered with a shrug.

“How?”

“With a backfist.”

“Good grief, Mike! The guy could sue us for excessive force!”

Mikieru shrugged again. “What, you would much rather I used my Mace instead? Sean, the fact of the matter is that he stole a Peco and he is going to be booked for it.”

“If that’s just the case, why did you call me?”

“Because I have a hunch,” the Cleric answered, holding up a clear plastic bag containing a gemmed ring and several vials of Yellow Potion. “I found these on his person. I believe this guy is an Occultist messenger and he’s carrying very important information.”

“And, one more time, you need my Pin to justify an investigation based on your hunches. Is that it?” Sean said, a hesitant look pasted on his face. “It’s my neck you’re risking, Mike.”

“When was I ever wrong, Sean?”

Sean took the bag from Mikieru’s hands. “I hope you realize that there’s a first time for everything,” he whispered, pushing the door open and stepping into the room.

• • •

The man in the black coat shot a violent look at the man who followed Sean into the Interrogation Room and immediately pointed an accusing finger.

“That’s him! That’s the guy, Prefect!” he shouted at Sean. “He’s the one who did this to me! I demand that I get retribution for this—”

“Stow it, buddy,” Sean said as he took a seat across the table. “I’ll do the talking.”

The man muttered a curse, his eyes on Mikieru as the Cleric stood by the door, his hands calmly clasped behind his back.

“So,” Sean said, preparing to take notes. “State your name for the record.”

The man said nothing.

“What, now that I ask you to talk, you have nothing to say?”

“He goes by the name of Tragg,” Mikieru said quietly. “He is a repeat offender.”

“Shut up, chink!” the man yelled at the Cleric.

“You shut up, or I book you on insulting an officer,” Sean said calmly, writing down the thug’s name on his notebook. “Now tell me this. Why did you take that Peco?”

Tragg sniffed, wiping his bloody nose with a cloth. “I needed a ride,” he said from behind the fabric.

“Given you needed a ride, why were you in such a hurry?”

“The hell do you care?”

“You almost ran over some kids, that’s why.”

“It ain’t my fault Prontera doesn’t have enough day-care centers.”

Sean put the plastic bag onto the table and pushed it towards Tragg, the gemmed ring in full view of the thug.

“Can you explain the ring?” Sean asked.

“It’s mine,” Tragg sniffed.

“Sure it is,” Mikieru interjected. “I recognize the ring. It is worn by Occultist captains as a sign of rank.”

“Exactly,” the thug countered. “I’m a captain.”

“No, you are not. Captains wear their rings on their left middle finger and never take it off unless to authenticate a messenger’s message. The ring fell out of your coat pocket when you fell off the Peco.” Mikieru stepped towards the table. “And you, my friend, are a messenger.”

Tragg bit his lip, his eyes set on Sarth’s ring.

“Such a hurry, too. It must have been a very important message. Care to tell us about it?”

The thug shook his head. “I’m not talking to you.”

Sean cleared his throat, shooting a ‘please be quiet’ look at Mikieru. “Well then,” the Knight continued, “maybe you can tell us about the Yellow Potion instead. There’s a city-wide shortage of the potion and yet I see… fifteen, twenty, twenty-five vials of the potion here.”

“It’s mine,” Tragg answered blankly. “I hoard. I’ve had them for months.”

“That is if Yellow Potion does not rot after three weeks,” Mikieru said.

“The hell do you know, chink?” Tragg yelled again.

“Quiet!” Sean demanded. “I’m not going to repeat myself, Tragg.”

“He was going to Al de Baran,” Mikieru told Sean. “Or rather, he was returning to it. That is the only way he could have taken possession of so much Yellow Potion at this point in time.”

“I ain’t talking,” Tragg said with finality.

“What were you, an Occultist, doing in Al de Baran?” Mikieru asked, leaning forward and putting his hands on the table.

“I want a lawyer,” the thug answered.

“What is the message you are carrying?”

“You can’t touch me.”

“Who are you meeting?”

“I said you can’t touch me!”

“Answer me.”

“Kiss my ass!”

“That’s enough!” Sean shouted, exasperated at the two. “Mike, he’s right. Aside from the theft, we don’t have much on him. We can’t hold him much longer.”

“You hear that?” Tragg bragged to the Cleric, leaning back and smiling. “You can’t touch me, Priest.”

“Maybe,” Mikieru said quietly. “But you and I both know this is far from over.”

“Go to hell,” Tragg answered defiantly. “I know who you are. I know what you’re trying to do. You ain’t got nothin’ on me, punk, so might as well give up trying.”

“Only one favor,” the Cleric said, leaning his face further towards Tragg’s. “Tell your boss that Mikieru Makimachi sends his regards.”

“Heh,” Tragg snorted. “Yeah. I’ll betcha Garrione’s gonna like that.”

Sean’s eyes widened. “Garrione?” he spat. “Who said anything about Garrione?”

Tragg shot a shocked look at Sean, then back at Mikieru. The Cleric had a grim smirk on his face—in the false confidence he had instilled in Tragg, the thug had unwittingly given out the name of the Old Occultists’ main leader.

Mikieru straightened. “We’re done here,” he said simply, taking a set of handcuffs from his pocket. “Thanks, Sean.”

Sean stayed in his seat, watching as Mikieru took a cuffed, cursing Tragg from his seat and led him out of the Interrogation Room. As the door closed behind the two, the Knight looked at his notes. The writing of an Official Report was to follow the interrogation, and he wondered whether or not to include the revelation of Garrione’s name in it. He knew that doing so would put him under a lot of hot water from the Constabulary higher-ups, and he would be hard-pressed to explain himself and how a Constable managed to squeeze the information out of an overconfident Occultist.

The Knight closed his folder and got off his seat, shaking his head all the while. He wondered why bureaucracy made him a Prefect while Mikieru remained a Constable.

• • •

Five days later, in the forested Midgard Highlands

• • •

Shin-ju gaped in awe as he and the Merchant Jared Wycrow passed through the main gates of Payon Fort City. The sight he was expecting to see kept playing in his mind over the past six days of hiking, and yet what he beheld as they passed under Payon’s giant Torii was more wonderful by far.

The clean, curved-roof houses were adorned with colorful banners, flags, and kites. Lighted lanterns hung over the streets, offering friendly illumination over the bustling shopping stalls as the mid-afternoon sun began to set. Its fair-skinned denizens were adorned in beautiful silk robes, no two alike. Lively, tinny music played from bandstands and impromptu sidewalk collections. Children ran through the streets, pinwheels spinning in their hands. Entertainers flaunted their magic tricks and dancing skills in front of adoring audiences.

”Jared, this place is amazing,” Shin-ju said, bashfully accepting a pinwheel from a man wearing a fox mask and a kimono.

“Yup, it sure is,” Jared admitted, receiving a balloon from the masked man. “It’s the Midsummer Festival of the Highlands.”

“A festival? We’re in the middle of a festival?”

“Uh-huh,” the Merchant concurred, his hand making a sweeping gesture as they walked towards the city over a bridge. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that the people who live here don’t look like Northfolk.”

Shin-ju nodded. The people here had eyelids that folded inwards, giving their eyes a strangely beautiful slanted look. They were also slightly shorter than Northfolk, and the bridges of their noses were curved and graceful rather than angular and firm.

“The Payonese first settled here in the Midgard Highlands 250 years ago. Those Orient migrants were the ancestors of the people you see living here now. They came from the cities of Amatsu and Kunlun, far across the ocean in the distant continent of Khan.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Since then, the Payonese villages became united under a family of warriors—the Yamagachis—and Payon as we know it came to be. It was around the same time that Prontera came to be ruled by the family of our King Tristan III. It didn’t take long before the Kingdom and the Shogunate began diplomacy talks and formed the Midgard Alliance as we know it today.”

“W-wait a minute,” Shin-ju said, wrenching his eyes from the colorful revelry around them to look up at Jared. “An Alliance? Since so long ago?”

“Yeah,” Jared acknowledged. “Why?”

Shin-ju turned his eyes away in thought. “If Prontera and Payon made peace so easily back then, how come they couldn’t come into terms with Morroc?”

The Merchant laughed uneasily. “Well, these days it sorta goes without saying that Nomads aren’t exactly the friendliest people in the world,” he answered. “But between you an’ me, Shin-ju—the real reason is sex.”

Shin-ju narrowed his eyes at the Merchant. Jared had been in a joking mood for the better part of their six-day hike, and more than a few green jokes had chiseled their way into Shin-ju’s p.syche.

“I’m, uh… I’m sorta serious here, Jared.”

Jared laughed again, this time gleefully. “Naw, I’m not kidding, Shin-ju,” he apologized. “Reproduction between Northfolk and Nomads are impossible, even though both races are human. Northfolk and Orients, however, don’t seem to have any trouble getting it on. You’ve seen a lot of crossbreeds between the two races, I’m sure.”

“Um, not really,” Shin-ju replied, his eyes on the darkening blue sky. “So is, uh… is sex also the main reason for this festival?”

The Merchant chuckled loudly.

“Now that would be really something, wouldn’t it?” he mused. “Naw, it’s not like that at all. It’s the end of April, and in Khan they celebrate the coming of Midsummer and the beginning of the harvest season. Midsummer comes in July here in Midgard, though, but the Payonese traditionally celebrate it now, knowing that their cousins in their mother continent are also celebrating it somewhere over the horizon.”

A gust of wind blew the pinwheel out of Shin-ju’s fingers. In a frantic moment, the boy instinctively turned around and watched it fly away towards the east.

The two had been walking on a pathwalk on the crest of a ridge, overlooking the ocean in the east. Shin-ju slowly laid his hands on the railing, watching the pinwheel disappear into the one blue of the sky and the water. The wind wafted from behind him, throwing some of his blue hair over his eyes.

“Somewhere over the horizon,” Shin-ju repeated dreamily, “your kin celebrate with you?”

Shin-ju turned around, all of a sudden feeling the fatigue that he failed to sense in the six days of hiking behind him. He turned his eyes upward to look at Jared, but stepped back in surprise as he looked into the eyes of a Payonese—a stranger. A few other Payonese in the pathwalk were casting curious glances at the blue-haired Nomad boy.

“Hey, Shin-ju!”

Shin-ju looked through the moving bodies in front of him at Jared, who was waving his balloon in the air.

“Come on, keep up with me! My friend’s Inn is over this way.”

Shin-ju turned his eyes downward as he pushed, almost apologetically, through the moving crowd.

• • •

“Here we are,” Jared simply said, smiling.

“Ronin Rest?” Shin-ju recited, looking at the signboard over the Inn’s main door.

“Yup, the one and only,” Jared answered, opening the wooden sliding door. “Take off your shoes and leave ‘em in the rack over there. Don’t worry, no one’ll take them.”

Shin-ju obeyed as Jared took off his own shoes. They stepped into the lobby in their socks.

The lobby was simply furnished in traditional Payonese fashion. Instead of seats, there were soft pillows laid on the straw-mat floors, set around low square tables. Beautiful flower arrangements stood in the middle of the tables. Wind chimes hung over the corners of the rooms. The walls were bare, save for a few small works of Payonese art, some depicting plant life, others depicting great warriors. Shin-ju liked the place immediately.

“Take a seat over there, Shin-ju,” Jared said, pointing to a pillow near a rear corner of the lobby. “I’ll call my friend first.”

Shin-ju obeyed. He squatted on the pillow as Jared approached the front counter.

“Konnichiwa,” Jared called.

Shin-ju cocked his head. Konnichi-what? he thought.

“Yes, I am coming,” a soft male voice came from a back room. A few seconds later, a tall man stepped out. He had long, straight black hair, a firm jaw, and piercing black eyes. He was wearing a Hakama, a traditional Payonese costume only worn by men and women of great honor. Looking at him from a distance, Shin-ju judged the man to be almost forty years old.

The man stopped as he saw Jared over the counter. He smiled in recognition. “Jared Wycrow,” he said simply.

“Akira-sama,” Jared said, smiling and bowing.

“It has been so long, Jared! How are you?” the tall man said, coming forward and shaking Jared’s hand. “You have gotten fatter since the last time we saw each other.”

“Well, y’can’t be a good Merchant on an empty stomach, y’know,” Jared joked, looking around the lobby. “So you finally got your Inn. Congratulations. It’s beautiful.”

“It is all thanks to you, Jared,” the Innkeeper said. “I am only 38, but I can already settle down and maintain a peaceful job. To think I doubted you when I first met you! But you do have quite a way to make money grow…” he stopped, spotting Shin-ju sitting in the corner. “Who is that? Is he with you?”

“Oh, right,” Jared said, turning to Shin-ju. “Akira, this is Shin-ju, my… uh… apprentice. He’s helped me a lot on my way here.”

Shin-ju felt awkward in the presence of the tall, noble man. He smiled uncertainly as the man approached him.

The tall man knelt in front of Shin-ju, placed both his hands on the tatami floor, and bowed his head slightly. “I am Yamakuno Akira. Welcome, Shin-ju-kun, to my inn. My sincere thanks for taking care of my good friend.”

Shin-ju nervously followed Akira’s posture, placing both hands on the floor and bowing his head.

Then the Innkeeper saw the burns on Shin-ju's forearms. “Shin-ju-kun, where did you get those burns?”

“Oh, those?” Jared interjected frantically, forgetting that Shin-ju’s arms were still unbandaged. “It-it was an accident, see… uh… we camped while we were traveling on the way here. Shin-ju wasn’t, uh, used to crossing the country, and he fell asleep while, uh, he was tending the fire. It was a good thing we camped near a creek.”

Akira’s eyes turned from Shin-ju’s arms to his eyes, and Shin-ju nodded too quickly.

“I see,” Akira said. “We must treat them right away, or else they will get infected.” Akira turned his head to call over his shoulder. “Yoriko! Bring some ointment and bandages here right away. We have an injured guest.”

Shin-ju heard a very small female voice from the backroom. “Hai.”

Jared took a seat across Shin-ju at the table. “Uh, who’s Yoriko?” he asked Akira, trying to change the subject.

“She is my daughter,” Akira answered with a smile. “I adopted her. I took her in only two years ago. She is about the same age as Shin-ju-kun, and…”

The Innkeeper stopped, noticing the strange combination of Shin-ju’s tan skin and blue hair.

“…And there are other things they have in common, as well,” he whispered.

Shin-ju looked at Akira blankly, wondering what he meant. Just then, Yoriko entered the room.

Yoriko was a thin girl, with fair skin and long black hair. She wore a blue kimono and white socks, and carried a small medical kit. She approached the three men with delicate, soundless steps, and her eyes were downcast. Shin-ju thought she looked like walking towards a judge to hear her sentence as a punishment for an unknown crime.

Akira moved to the head of the table, vacating his pillow seat for Yoriko. Jared secretly spied Shin-ju as the boy stared at the young girl approaching him.

Yoriko wordlessly sat down on the pillow seat beside Shin-ju and lay down the medkit on the floor, without turning her eyes to the boy. She carefully opened the medkit and took out a small container of ointment.

“Yoriko, meet my good friend, Jared Wycrow,” the Innkeeper told his daughter. “He is the reason why we have this Inn. Oh, and also meet his apprentice, Shin-ju.”

“Honored to meet you, Yoriko-chan,” Jared said, bowing his head at the girl.

Yoriko turned towards Jared, eyes down, and bowed her head. Then she turned to Shin-ju to bow, but froze when she saw Shin-ju’s arms. She noticed, not the burns, but his tan skin. Slowly she raised her eyes to Shin-ju’s face.

• • •

Yoriko had green eyes—a trait only found in Elves, and never in Humans.

They were the same—they were both different.

Shin-ju and Yoriko both suddenly felt the impulse—the need—to talk, to confide, to understand—and to be understood—by each other. And it only took one look in each other’s eyes.

• • •

“<Oi, Yoriko,>” Akira said in stern Payonese, interrupting their stare. “<Do not wait for the burns to fester.>”

Embarrassed, Yoriko turned away. “H-hai,” she squeaked, opening the container of ointment. She gently held one of Shin-ju’s forearms with one hand and carefully applied the ointment with the other. Shin-ju winced as his burns flared, reacting to the ointment.

“Slowly, now,” Akira said. Turning to Jared, he continued their conversation. “So what brings you to the Highlands, Jared?”

“I’ve come to cash in on the Midsummer Festival, what else?” Jared answered with a laugh. “Y’can’t keep a good Merchant down! But besides that… I also need to speak to the Daimyo. There’s a request I need to make.”

“I see.”

“Can you arrange for an audience soon? Being a former high-ranking Payon Knight, I was hoping you could pull some strings…”

“Say no more, Jared. I can arrange an audience tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Jared asked, surprised. “Really? So soon?”

“Yes. I am no longer just a field Major,” Akira said proudly. “I am the new Shousa, third in rank after the Shogun himself.”

“That's incredible!” Jared exclaimed. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” the Innkeeper answered as humbly as he could, bowing. “I will have to go out tonight to set the audience’s schedule, but I shall check you in your rooms and have dinner first.”

“Sounds great. Shin-ju and I’ll just share a room… and if it’s OK with you, can we settle the bill with Yellow Potion? I really don’t have much money on me right now.”

Akira frowned at the Merchant’s attempt to haggle. “You know, you are little by little reminding me about why I doubted you the first time I met you…”

• • •

At that moment, Yoriko finished treating and bandaging Shin-ju’s forearms. She raised her eyes to his, and the boy smiled.

“Thanks,” he whispered. Yoriko didn’t answer, but turned away hiding a smile.

Akira rose. “Be sure to come down for dinner, Jared. Meeting you again is a cause to celebrate.”

“Sure, we will,” Jared answered, rising. “But I hope you don’t mind if I take a nap, first?”

“Of course not,” Akira laughed. “Come over to the counter and I shall check you in.”

“Shin-ju, d’you wanna rest a while, too?” Jared asked.

Shin-ju had been watching Yoriko close the medkit, rise soundlessly to her feet, and walk into the back room. He looked up with a start when he heard his name.

“I, uh… I mean, sure, but… uh…” Shin-ju stammered, “I need to do a few things first. Can I go check out the Festival a bit more?”

Jared couldn’t feel but think the boy was up to something.

“OK, but don't get lost,” the Merchant cautioned. “I’ll just be here.”

“Thanks, Jared!” Shin-ju leaped up and walked towards the door. He put on his shoes, turned to Akira, and bowed. “And thank you very much, sir.”

Akira returned the bow and watched Shin-ju walk out the sliding door. Then he turned to Jared, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

• • •

Shin-ju went straight to the Kafra Mail Service Station, a little down the street from Ronin Rest. It was a mail service by Kafra, Inc., which offered one-day mail delivery using trained Falcons to deliver letters to different parts of Midgard.

The Mail Station was small and humbly furnished. It had a main service counter and a few armchairs for people to write on. Quickly Shin-ju requested for a sheet of paper and pen, took an armchair by the window, and began to write.



Kitsune-Senpai,

First of all, I’m OK. I hope I didn’t worry you too much by disappearing all of a sudden. Certain things happened between now and six mornings ago. I’ll explain everything when I get back, because I don’t have enough zenny to pay for two sheets of paper. At this point, I just wanna say that I’m fine.

I’m in Payon right now. I'm traveling with a Merchant named Jared Wycrow, and we’re staying in an Inn called Ronin Rest. We went here because Prontera is dangerous for both of us at the moment. The Old Occultists are looking for both of us.

But everything will probably be OK, because the Innkeeper is a friend of his who used to be a soldier like you. He’s now a high-ranking official in the Shogunate here (I didn’t catch the name of his rank, sorry). I don’t know what they’ll do, but hopefully it’ll fix everything and it’ll be safe for Mr. Wycrow to return to Prontera soon.

Guess what, I’ve gotten stronger. I could use the Blessing in a battle now. It actually saved my life. Like I said, I’ll explain everything when I get back. I just want to say… Thanks, Senpai. I’m sure you’ll be proud of me when I show you what I can now do with the things you've been teaching me.


Shin-ju looked out the window, trying to think of something else to write to Mikieru.

Across the street, he saw Yoriko drawing water from the Inn’s well. He watched her hair floating in the wind. He looked at her misty green eyes. He watched her small frame lift the heavy bucket of water, hold it against her chest, and carefully walk into the Inn, making sure she didn’t spill any of the water. Gingerly she closed the sliding door with her foot.

Shin-ju’s eyes lay fixed on the sliding door for a few moments, thinking of the girl. Then he finished his letter.



As for me, I’ll probably be staying here for a while. There are some things I’d like to find out. I hope you don't mind.

Take care,

Shin-ju

• • •

End of Chapter Three

[Mikey]

Chapter Four
The Eternal Enigma

Yoriko hesitated to hand the plate she was washing to Shin-ju.

The boy had been volunteering to help wash the dishes since their first meal together the previous night. Neither Akira nor Jared seemed to mind the boy’s sudden eagerness to be of help to the Inn, though they did exchange a meaningful glance at each other every time the two kids disappeared into the kitchen.

Shin-ju cautiously took the plate from her hands, his eyes fluttering from the plate to her face.

She raised her eyes to his and managed a nervous smile. Strangers always threw a feeling of unease over Yoriko—having a boy her age standing beside her for longer than a few moments scared her to death at first. As Jared and Shin-ju had more meals at the Ronin Rest, however, Yoriko little by little grew accustomed to the sight of Shin-ju drying the cutlery for her.

He returned the smile. She took another plate and started washing it while he dried the one in his hands with a cloth.

The kitchen was quiet, save for the sounds of their hands working in unison to clean plates and cutlery.

“Do you get lonely?” Shin-ju asked quietly. It was the first words spoken between the two since the ‘Thanks’ the boy gave the previous night, after Yoriko treated his burns and wounds.

“Oh, no,” Yoriko answered in her serene Oriental tone, immediately understanding what Shin-ju meant. “My Papa takes good care of me, you see.”

“Do you go to school?”

“I would like to, and I think my Papa knows. When the Midsummer passes, he is going to let me move to the Archers’ Village north of here. How about you?”

Shin-ju shook his head. “Nope. My boss doesn’t have enough money to enroll me. And the people in Prontera don’t like me very much, either.”

“I see… I am sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, but… it’s to be expected, I guess.”

The girl nodded at this statement.

Yoriko finished washing her plate and passed it to Shin-ju, who took it from her hands and started wiping it with a small towel. She took another greasy plate and placed it in the water.

“I do like Payon, though,” Shin-ju continued. “The people here are much less likely to judge me by the color of my skin… but people are prejudicial wherever you go, though.”

“Um,” Yoriko agreed quietly.

“By the way, did you always live here?”

“N-no, I did not,” the girl replied. “I only began living here two years ago, when my Papa adopted me.”

“Where did you live before that?”

“I do not remember.”

“Really? You don’t?”

Yoriko stopped washing the plate she was holding and looked up, as if in deep thought. “I… I do not remember. My earliest memory was when I was wandering in the forests to the north... you have heard of that place? The Forests Of The Moon?”

Shin-ju looked into her eyes blankly for a moment before shaking his head. “I haven’t heard of this place, but please go on…”

The girl nodded. “That was three years ago. I did not know where I came from, but it did not matter to me. I did not know about birth or death. I did not know about pain or suffering. I was content. I was happy living in the forest.”

“I see.”

Yoriko continued. “After about a year I was found by my Papa. He was the leader of a small group of Payon Knights at that time.”

“What was he doing there?”

“I am not sure. I think it was because there was a sighting of a number of Highland Elves in the area, and he was sent by the Shogunate to see if the report was true. They did not find any Elves, but they did find me.”

The plate lay in the water in the sink, forgotten, as Yoriko turned to Shin-ju.

“And, Shin-ju-kun, it was terrible, they said I was an Elf-witch, because I have Elven green eyes and human ears at the same time. See, Elves have pointy ears, but since I did not have them, the other Knights realized that I was a Demi-human. I remember it clearly—they said that I should be killed. But Papa stopped them, saying that I did nothing to deserve death.”

Shin-ju decided to ask. “But why did they want to kill you?”

“Do you not know? They say that Elves are demons, because they are all born with powers and abilities that are not found in Humans. Humans, you see, have to learn to use magic. Elves are already born with the ability to use it, just like demons. It was only then that I was exposed to the fact that, in this world, there existed the two extremes of good and evil—and I, in their sight, was evil.”

“That’s terrible,” Shin-ju admitted.

“Yes! And then, Shin-ju-kun, Papa took off his cloak and put it around me, see, because I did not have any clothes on.” Yoriko crossed her arms over her shoulders, emphasizing her words with her hands. “Then he picked me up and carried me back to Payon. He adopted me soon after that, and I have been a serving girl in his Inn ever since.”

Shin-ju nodded.

Yoriko stopped. She looked at the forgotten stack of plates beside her, and then at Shin-ju's attentive gray eyes. Embarrassed, she turned away and lifted a plate from the sink, washing it carelessly.

“I-I am sorry,” Yoriko stammered. “I lost myself.”

Shin-ju smiled, turning away and wiping the plate in his hands. “No, please go on.”

“You are very kind, Shin-ju-kun,” the girl said. “But… I find it strange.”

“What is?”

“This,” Yoriko said, eyes down, her finger pointing back and forth between Shin-ju’s chest and her own. “I-I have only met you yesterday, Shin-ju-kun, but I am telling you so many things about myself, as if I have known you for… for as long as I can remember.”

Shin-ju shrugged, smiling sadly. “That,” he said, “is to be expected too, I guess.”

Yoriko looked at Shin-ju, wondering what he meant.

“I know how it must make you feel,” Shin-ju continued. “I doubt there are any other Demi-humans besides you in this city. It must be terrible being different from the others… being alienated from everyone else because of the color of your eyes… it’s an endless sequence of sadness and self-pity, and I’ve been through that myself. That’s why… that’s why I feel the same as you do.”

The girl nodded.

“I’m sorry to have prodded into your history, Yoriko-chan… but to tell you the truth, I’ve been looking for the truth behind our kind for three years. Three years may be a pittance for some people, but it seems like a lifetime if you spend it wandering the desert wilderness.”

Yoriko’s eyes widened.

“I’ll be honest with you,” Shin-ju whispered. “Do you know what guided me during my wandering? A voice. A tiny female voice… and very strange things happen whenever I follow it. I heard that voice again six days ago, and look… it led me here. It led me to meet another Demi-human… you, Yoriko.”

Yoriko couldn’t help herself. “Do you… do you think this is Fate?”

Shin-ju thought about her question for a short moment, then shook his head as he turned back to the plates. “I’m not sure,” he answered. “But if I don’t find out what I can while I’m still here, we’ll never know, right?”

• • •

“Yoriko,” Akira's soft, deep voice called from the lobby. “I will be going ahead to the Palace to prepare the hearing. You will take Mr. Wycrow and Shin-ju there. Do not be late.”

“Hai,” Yoriko answered, washing the rest of the dishes with a notable impatience. Turning to Shin-ju, she said, “Shin-ju-kun, please leave the dishes to me. I left a Gi* in your bedroom upstairs. Please change into it, because the guards will not let you into the Shogunate halls if you are dressed like that.”
* Gi - A uniform similar to the ones used in Martial Arts dojos.

Shin-ju looked mournfully at the scorched sleeves of his jacket and at the bandages on his arms. “OK,” he answered. “I’ll see you later.”

Shin-ju walked towards the door, but hesitated before going through the threshold. He had an urge to stay with Yoriko, but for reasons apart from wanting to find out about Demi-humanity. It surprised him—what could have been more important than that?

He looked back at Yoriko and caught her peeking over her shoulder at him. Embarrassed, she looked away and hastily continued washing.

He felt had to say something. “Er… Yoriko-chan?” he started, scratching the back of his head.

“Hm?” Yoriko answered, turning to him.

“Uh… well…” he stammered, “After the Shogunate… I mean… After Jared’s audience in the Shogunate, would you like to, um, well…”

She stared at him with wondering eyes.

“…would you like to go out with me?” he finished, biting off the tip of the question. “We could talk a bit more, and we could check out the Festival too if you like.”

Yoriko smiled, sweetly surprised.

“Y-Yes,” she answered. “That would be nice.”

“Really?” Shin-ju asked, surprised.

Yoriko nodded, trying to suppress her smile.

“Great,” the boy finished, smiling. “I’ll see you later!”

Shin-ju jumped out into the lobby, and Yoriko turned to her dishes. Then both of them took a deep breath before moving again.

• • •

Shin-ju looked uneasily at the make of the Greater Court hall. Jared was similarly edgy, expecting only a Lesser Court audience to be prepared for his request. Instead, the Shogun’s second-in-command—the Taishou—opted to elevate the audience to a Greater Court affair at the last minute, wanting to hear about the Merchant’s plight himself.

The Greater Court hall was not excessively large, but the high ceiling, precise pine woodwork, and dark oak paneling made Jared and Shin-ju feel subdued. Suits of Oriental armor stood on each of the four corners of the long rectangular room, adding to the inhibiting mood the room gave to foreigners.

The Merchant squatted at one end of a long, large table, with Shin-ju and Yoriko squatting behind him on both sides. The Daimyo, highland lords loyal to the Shogun, listlessly sat on the long sides of the table. They were garbed in their ceremonial Hakamas, the sight of which added to the tension of the wait.

After what seemed to be an eternity for the three, the sliding doors at the end of the room parted to reveal the Taishou. Akira followed closely behind.

Without turning an eye to the new arrivals, the Daimyo placed their hands at the edge of the table and bowed their heads deeply. Jared and Yoriko followed suit, and Shin-ju tried to imitate the action as best he could.

The Taishou and the Shousa returned the bows quietly, then assumed their places at the end of the table, indicating that the Court was now in order.

Jared rose. “Taishou Inomori Oruku,” the Merchant greeted, bowing deeply.

The Taishou nodded in return.

Turning to Akira, Jared bowed again. “Shousa Yamakuno Akira.”

Akira returned the bow.

“Speak, Jared Wycrow,” the Taishou ordered.

“Hai,” Jared answered respectfully. “Taishou, I have been driven out of my hometown, Al de Baran Machine City, by brigands belonging to the Old Occultists. They have seized my assets. They have destroyed my home office. They have kidnapped one who is dearest to me.”

Shin-ju eyed Jared quietly. This was the second time the boy heard the Merchant claim his hometown to be Al de Baran, although Jared had insisted a few more times that he was from Alberta.

There is more to Jared than meets the eye, Shin-ju thought.

Jared’s voice quivered as he continued. “I could not make my request in Prontera, as the Occultists had intercepted me on my way there. I had no other choice but to seek help here, in Payon Fort City. I ask that the Taishou, in his peerless wisdom, to lend me a number of soldiers—three hundred will suffice—to aid me in reclaiming my possessions and rooting the Occultists out of Al de Baran.”

“The Old Occultists,” the Taishou drawled in a deep gravelly voice. “Long have they been a thorn in the side of our Northfolk brothers.”

Jared, Shin-ju, and Yoriko waited with bated breath for the Taishou to continue.

“Yes,” the Taishou said finally. “You are not the seek aid from the Shogunate with this problem, and the good faith that the Shousa places upon you attests that you are worthy of the Shogunate’s trust. Yes. I shall help you.”

“Truly?” Jared said, very relieved.

“I will send a contingent of Payon Knights from the Sograt Garrisons to root out the Old Occultists in both Prontera and Al de Baran. Such as an act respectful of our Alliance with the Capital.”

“Thank you, Taishou! Words cannot express my gratitude for your kindness!” Jared said, bowing.

“I only ask this,” the Taishou continued. “What have you done to merit such hatred from the Occultists?”

Jared looked up and opened his mouth, but no word came out.

“Tell me,” the Taishou said, “Why are the Occultists after you? If they were merely interested in your assets, they would have left you alone when you escaped to Prontera. But they did not. Instead they chased you and even took a loved one as a hostage.”

Shin-ju and Yoriko looked at Jared. The Merchant was shaking.

Akira looked on, motionless, allowing his superior to ask all the obvious questions.

“You have something that they want,” the Taishou concluded. “What is it?”

Jared looked down. “I… I can’t…” he closed his eyes. “I can’t tell you…”

Akira was shocked. In the two years he had served as Shousa, he had never seen anyone refuse to answer a question asked by the Taishou. Slowly he turned to his superior, expecting the worst.

“Do not worry,” the Taishou said calmly. “I know.”

Akira, Jared, Shin-ju, and Yoriko looked at the Taishou, surprised. Slowly the Taishou turned to the Daimyo.

“Please leave us here,” he asked. Unquestioningly, the Daimyo bowed, rose, and left the Greater Court, closing the sliding doors behind them.

Everyone stared at the Taishou as he reached into the folds of his Hakama and took out a smooth bluish rock, with rounded edges and three smooth sides. Jared froze.

The Taishou laid the rock on the table in front of him.

Shin-ju couldn’t hold himself back. “What’s that?” he asked.

The Taishou leaned forward, smiling, his eyes twinkling. Then he solemnly opened his mouth and spoke.

“Have any of you ever heard of the Legend of the One Who Waits?”

• • •

To be continued

This post has been edited by Mikey: Aug 24 2006, 10:50 PM

[Mikey]

“The One Who Waits?” Shin-ju whispered.

Everyone in the Greater Court knelt unmoving. Jared stared at the blue rock in front of the Taishou with wide, apprehensive eyes. Yoriko’s head was bowed, eyes raised, moving between the rock and her father. Akira glanced at his superior, his calm face curious.

“Yes,” the Taishou replied. “Have you heard of it, young Nomad?”

Shin-ju fidgeted. “No, I haven’t, Taishou,” he answered.

“That is all right. I am sure she has.”

Everyone but Jared turned to look at Yoriko. It took a few seconds before the girl looked up, realizing that she was the only female in the Greater Court at the time, and that the Taishou was referring to her. Quivering, she held the great warrior’s stare.

The Taishou closed his eyes and nodded his head.

“Hai,” Yoriko timidly said, acknowledging the unasked question.

She spoke, and they listened.

“In all of the traditional myths regarding the creation of the earth, there is a legend which appears in each of them. Some portions of this legend vary in every version, but the theme is always the same—in the end of the world, a great cataclysm will occur.

“In the Holy Scriptures, for instance, it is said that there shall be a battle between the forces of good and evil, in which the forces of good shall triumph. God shall come out of the heavens and judge each person that has set foot on earth. The worthy shall be taken with Him into his heavenly Kingdom, while the damned shall be sent to the Devil’s domain to suffer for eternity.

“This the Holy Church calls Judgment Day.

“Old Norse Tradition also has an account of the end of the universe, wherein the gods and the souls of brave slain warriors shall fight the last battle against evil giants, monsters, and the cursed dead. In this tradition, however, the forces of good shall lose, and the Nine Worlds shall be destroyed by fire. Afterwards, a new earth will rise up from the ocean. Mankind shall start over. The sons of the gods will begin a new race of divinities. This new world, cleansed of evil, shall endure forever.

“This is the Twilight of the Gods… Ragnarok.”

The Taishou nodded in approval. “Shousa,” he said, turning to Akira, “Your daughter is bright. You must be very proud of her.”

Akria bowed. “Thank you, Taishou. Indeed I am, that she is growing up in a way that you find approving.”

Shin-ju stared at Yoriko for a few seconds before he spoke. “Wow. Where’d you learn all of that? I thought you never went to school.”

The girl smiled shyly. “I just read a lot.”

“But who is the One Who Waits?” Shin-ju asked, loudly enough to be heard by the Taishou.

The Taishou turned his eyes to Shin-ju, then to Yoriko. The girl nodded, and she resumed her story.

“In both traditions there is an unusual story that does not seem to belong. At first, historians thought it was only an insignificant side-story. But the fact that it appears in both traditional myths suggests otherwise.

“As you might know, much of the Holy Scriptures is composed of the writings of prophets, ascetics, and chroniclers who lived in the past 10,000 years. A number of these people make some mention of the One Who Waits in their writings. The information is very vague, but the Holy Church believes that the One Who Waits is a mythical figure whose purpose is to bring balance to the world by sacrificing itself to destroy the forces of evil.

“In Old Norse Tradition, the One Who Waits is a being who also brings balance by destroying the forces of evil, allowing the new, perfect world to begin. Again, our knowledge of him is very limited, but we do know this much—in both traditions, the fate of the new world is hinged on whether the One Who Waits arrives, and whether he, or it, succeeds.

“The fact that this mythical being merely waits for its time to come into existence—when everything else in the universe has been set well into motion, when the Nine Worlds are deep in their last hours—earned it its name… the One Who Waits.”

Shin-ju was staring into space, deep in thought.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” he finally said. “The Legend of the One Who Waits doesn’t fit in.”

“Indeed,” the Taishou answered. “It is a 10,000 year old enigma. Over the millennia, historians and scholars have tried to eliminate it from the writing and telling of world history. Only the fact that this mystery appears in some way in all of the traditional myths, not only the two mentioned by Yoriko-chan, has kept it stubbornly in our knowledge.”

Shin-ju's eyes shifted to the rock in front of the Taishou. “Then… what is the rock’s significance?”

The Taishou laughed darkly. “We do not know,” he answered. “Do you see the tiny etchings on the rock’s front face? They are known as Nordic Runes. What they mean is lost in time, for none now live to remember it.”

The Taishou laid his fingers on the rock and turned it slowly. He stopped when a large Nordic Rune on the rock’s face came into his view.

“Save, perhaps, for this one Rune.”

Akira, Yoriko, and Shin-ju leaned forward to look at it.

“This Rune appears in all of the Old Norse writings regarding the One Who Waits… and nowhere else.”

“So there’s a connection between the rock and the Legend,” Shin-ju observed.

“It would seem so,” the Taishou agreed.

• • •

Then Shin-ju noticed Jared. The Merchant was perspiring.

“Jared, you OK?” Shin-ju asked. “You're soaking wet.”

Jared looked up and caught the Taishou’s stare.

“I have a hinting of what you are trying to keep secret, Jared Wycrow,” the Taishou said calmly. “But perhaps it is best for your friends if the testimony came from your lips and not mine.”

Jared swallowed—he knew he had to explain himself. His friends listened as his story unfolded.

“I’m sure most of you have heard of the Goldraiders. They were a guild of Alchemists who, almost one thousand years ago, sought a mythical material called the Philosopher’s Stone. It was a legendary material that supposedly held the power to transmute ordinary lead into pure gold. It was a grand search, lasting over eight centuries and spanning four continents before the Goldraiders lost their influence over the art of Alchemy in Midgard and soon disbanded.

“These days, people look back at the Goldraiders’ quest as being a more spiritual and philosophical venture than one for power and wealth. Even today, gold may be traded—or transmuted, if you will—into any of man’s needs. The Philosopher’s Stone is now merely seen as something that one must seek in order to find true meaning in life—or, as the Goldraiders themselves would put it—an end-in-itself…”

Shin-ju was listening with interest. “You mean the Philosopher’s Stone didn’t really exist?” he blurted out.

Jared shrugged without lifting his eyes. “Well, up until today, no one knows of any material capable of transmuting lead to gold, so I guess the Goldraiders never really found such a stone. But at one time last century, Midgard was abuzz with rumors about the Alchemists finally finding it and keeping it somewhere in their ranks.

“Naturally, the leaders of Midgard back then wanted to know whether the rumors were true. King Tristan I, Shogun Keisuke Yamagachi, the Archmage of Geffen… heck, even the Sultan of Morroc jumped into the fray, trying to gain the favor of the Goldraiders and earn knowledge of the secret. The King and the Shogun even got into a few public squabbles over the whole thing. Sure, Prontera and Payon are bound under an Alliance, but you know how politicians are.

“But almost as soon as the Goldraiders’ popularity skyrocketed, it plummeted. The Alchemists have always been known to interact with Elves, and no one seemed to mind until rumors of the finding circumnavigated Midgard. It soon became clear that the Goldraiders seemed to favor the company of the Elves over their Human kin, and rumors—new ones—surfaced, indicating that the Philosopher’s Stone was instead entrusted to the care of the Elves.”

Jared sighed. “Humans are the most jealous creatures in the world.”

“But were the rumors true?” Shin-ju asked.

“No one knows, really. But the rumors did the damage, and soon both Goldraiders and Elves were looked upon with distrust in Midgard. The Alchemists soon lost their power, and members soon started leaving the guild. The Goldraiders officially ceased to exist eighty years ago—1314 SR.”

Shin-ju then turned his eyes back to the blue rock in front of the Taishou. “And… the thing you couldn’t tell me… us… is?”

The Taishou answered for Jared.

“You found a similar rock in Al de Baran?” the old man drawled.

Jared nodded, closing his eyes in fear. “My great-grandfather, James J. Wycrow, was known to be a Goldraider. My Trading Post in Al de Baran used to be his. Up until seven weeks ago, I was content running its ins and outs and quietly making a living. Then, early one morning, I received a visit from a mysterious messenger—an Elf—who handed me a set of papers and told me that it was a gift from James.”

“The papers were a set of directions which, to my amazement, led me to a hidden basement in the Trading Post. The Elf helped me decipher parts of James’s message until the directions led us to a small chamber that looked… strangely medieval.

“There was a podium in the middle of that chamber, and on it sat… a smooth, three-faced gray rock.”

Everyone’s eyes, including the Taishou’s, grew wide at this statement.

That was the rock he was holding on to in the lake! Shin-ju thought madly, remembering Jared’s beloved rock.

“James’s last message was cryptic,” Jared finished uneasily. “He wrote that with the knowledge of the Stone’s location came the responsibility of a thousand years to keep it secret. It was not the Goldraiders’ last wish that the stones’ locations be lost forever, but that they be protected by those its keepers saw worthy.”

“This stone is the Philosopher’s Stone?” the words escaped Yoriko’s lips weakly.

“I don’t know,” Jared said. “But somehow word got out that I had found something of great value belonging to the Goldraiders. It wasn’t long before I was a celebrity in the rumor mill, and soon Old Occultists were at my door.”

“The Occultists found out about it?” Shin-ju wanted to know.

“Apparently,” the Merchant concurred. “They said Garrione would give me anything—wealth, power, land—in exchange for the Philosopher’s Stone. I kept telling them that I knew nothing of such a stone, all the while hoping I could convince myself with the same lie. The whole affair made me feel ill at ease. I was hoping the Old Occultists would just give up and leave—but I realized too late that they were serious. Dead serious. They took the Elf messenger hostage and told me to hand the Stone over as ransom. That was almost two weeks ago.”

“What did you do then?” this time, it was Akira’s turn to ask.

“At first I thought I should just hand the Stone over and get this whole fiasco done with!” Jared rattled, his fists clenching at the prospect. “But then I realized that the Elf-messenger herself had told me that nothing—not even her own life in danger—should allow me to let the Stone fall into the wrong hands. And believe me, I know Garrione’s hands are as wrong as they can be.”

The Taishou nodded as Jared finished. “Very well,” he concluded. “I will then give the order to mobilize five hundred Payon Knights from our Garrisons at—”

“No!” Jared screamed. “No, Taishou—I’ve changed my mind. If we attack the Occultists now, Garrione might spread the word about the Stone’s location!”

“Hey may already have,” the Taishou insisted. “That is why we must cull this quickly.”

“But there must be another way!”

“Wycrow,” the old man said calmly. “This isn’t about the Stone, is it?”

At that, Jared had no answer. He lowered his eyes from the Taishou’s stare and closed his mouth.

“What is her name?” the Taishou’s question came.

Jared shook his head in quiet shame. “Napolde,” he answered. “Napolde Linwelyn.”

A slight smile etched itself on the old man’s wrinkled face. “Worry not, young Merchant,” the old man said. “Garrione is a warrior who thinks too much of his own life. He will safely give Miss Linwelyn up to us once he agrees to my terms—a deal which even the supreme leader of the Old Occultists would not dare refuse.”

“Truly?” the Merchant asked incredulously, looking up. “You can do that?”

“I can do that and more,” the Taishou said, allowing himself to chuckle a bit. “Our methods are stealthy, but be assured that the Shogunate has ways to negotiate with elements such as the Occultists. In any case, five hundred soldiers shall be mobilized as a failsafe to my plan.”

The old man took the blue rock and carefully placed it in the folds of his Hakama. “You are a fellow keeper of the Stone, Jared Wycrow. And for this, you have the protection of the Shogunate. The soldiers shall be decommissioned from the Sograt Garrisons tomorrow morning. It would be wisest for you to follow a day after tomorrow, when it is most likely that the violence, if any, in Prontera and Al de Baran will have abated. Then you will be able to enter the Machine City unmolested to claim Napolde and your stolen assets.”

Jared nodded, scarcely believing his fortune. “Thank you, wise Taishou,” he said meekly. “We shall do as you say.”

Akira and the Taishou watched as the Jared, Shin-ju and Yoriko filed out the doors of the Greater Court.

“Be safe,” the Taishou called after them.

• • •

End of Chapter Four

[Mikey]

Chapter Five
A Name, An Identity

Akira saw apprehension and bewilderment in the faces of Jared, Shin-ju, and his daughter Yoriko when he emerged from the Shogunate chambers. The three had been waiting for him at one of the waiting halls, and the Shousa sensed that not a word was exchanged among them ever since they left the Greater Court audience.

“Well, my friend, you never cease to amaze me,” Akira said, laughing softly as he stepped towards Jared. “There never seems to be a dull moment with you around.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Jared exhaled, relieved at seeing Akira back into a casual Hakama and not a ceremonial one. “Though I really have to apologize that I kept so many secrets from you…”

Jared turned around to glance at Shin-ju and Yoriko.

“Oh, think nothing of it,” Akira scoffed. “The Philosopher’s Stone? Goldraiders? As you have recounted yourself, Jared, they were merely symbols. Rumors. Stories that stimulate the minds of poets and little children. None of it can be real.”

The Merchant sighed, turning to lead his friends from the Shogunate Halls. “That may be so,” he muttered grimly. “But Garrione, the Occultists, and Napolde are very real to me.”

• • •

The four walked down the stone steps of the Shogunate Halls and stepped onto the large, square-shaped courtyard in front of it. The cool evening wind blew through their hair and silk robes, and the clear night sky greeted them with winking stars.

Shin-ju sniffed the air, noting the scent of pine that he had grown to like ever since he set foot in Prontera. The tall, pleasant-smelling evergreens were hard to find in the Capital, but they seemed to sprout like mushrooms over the Payon Highlands. It seemed as though Payon was built in and around the forest—the scent was soothingly everywhere. It almost made the boy forget what had transpired in the Greater Court audience only minutes ago.

“So,” Akira piped up, trying to enliven the bleak atmosphere. “The audience ended a little sooner than we had expected. It is still only a quarter-to-eight. What do you intend to do, Jared?”

Jared took a deep breath. “Seriously, Akira, I just wanna go back to the Inn. I’m too tired and too bothered to be doing anything else.”

“Of course, of course. Then we shall make our way back without delay.”

At that, Shin-ju and Yoriko exchanged quick, nervous glances at each other.

“Um… Papa?”

Akira looked down at his daughter, who took him by the sleeve and led him away, as if wanting to talk about something away from the ears of their guests.

“Say, uh… Jared, can I have a second?”

Likewise, Shin-ju put his hand on the Merchant’s shoulder and led him away. Jared and Akira looked at each other as they walked apart, puzzled.

“What is it, Yoriko?” Akira asked his daughter, bending down.

The girl stood on her tiptoes to whisper in her father’s ear. “Can I go out with Shin-ju-kun tonight?”

Akira froze.

• • •

“You’re going out on a what?” Jared asked, stupefied.

“Ssh, not so loud!” Shin-ju whispered back. “Yoriko and I are gonna go out on a… you know… tonight. Is that okay with you?”

Akira and Jared looked up and exchanged glances belonging to two senile old men.

The Merchant turned back to Shin-ju. “Seriously, man! You’re only thirteen!”

“It’s not what you think!” the boy countered. “We just wanna check out the Festival!”

Jared smirked dubiously. “You’re not taking my green jokes too seriously, are you?”

“Come on, Jared,” Shin-ju deadpanned, annoyed that the discussion was taking too long. “Yes, no, I dunno, it’s that simple.”

“Okay, okay,” the Merchant chuckled. “As long as both of you are back at the Rest by ten-thirty.”

The boy made a face as they walked back towards Akira and Yoriko. “Ten-thirty?” he carped quietly. “Cinderella got until midnight.”

Jared shrugged. “Well, Cinderella wasn’t thirteen years old.”

• • •

The two pairs walked towards each other.

“So, Akira, my old friend!” Jared greeted in mock jubilation. “Does Yoriko-chan have your blessing?”

Shin-ju cringed. “Cut it out!” he yelled.

“Indeed she does!” Akira greeted in return, waving his hand in triumph. “She could not have chosen a finer man!”

Yoriko’s face turned beet red. “Papa…” she muttered, her voice stretched and pained.

Akira laughed, placing his large hand lovingly on his daughter’s shoulder. “I am only joking, Yoriko. You may go with Shin-ju-kun to the Festival, but please do not stay out too late.”

The girl only managed to nod in thanks.

Before Shin-ju could step away, Jared grabbed him by the shoulder.

“One more thing, stud,” the Merchant whispered, turning the both of them away. “You’ve been an awfully good Apprentice for the past week, so I guess it’s time to give you your just reward—and a little lesson about dating and Trade.”

Shin-ju raised an eyebrow as Jared pushed a small bundle into his hand.

“Dating and Trade are pretty much the same thing,” Jared quipped. “The most important thing… is money.”

The Nomad boy’s eyes widened as he saw a money pouch—easily containing over twenty thousand zenny—in his hand. Shin-ju looked up at Jared with the biggest smile the Merchant had ever seen the boy give.

“Thanks, Jared!” Shin-ju said heartily. “You’re the best!”

Akira and Jared watched as the two kids walked away towards the courtyard’s exit with a noticeable spring in their steps.

“Have fun, you guys!” Jared called after them, giving a thumbs-up sign. Akira waved quietly, a smile on his face as he watched his daughter leave with the blue-haired Nomad boy.

• • •

Shin-ju and Yoriko soon found themselves a part of the jolly mobs enjoying the Festival. The two kids marveled at the lights, the music, and the laughter—they were totally at a loss where to start. They spent so much time trying to find out which way to go first that they did not notice, behind them, a tall man in a long black coat and a sakkat pass by, walking in the direction of the Shogunate Halls.

• • •

Jared spied Akira’s face as the two kids disappeared from their view. The old Knight still had a smile on his face.

“A zenny for your thoughts,” Jared ventured, looking in the same direction as Akira.

“I’ve never seen Yoriko warm up to anyone as easily as she has with Shin-ju,” Akira said. “The boy is remarkable. He exhibits traits that are well beyond his age.”

“Really now,” the Merchant sighed. “You’re not the least bit worried, are you?”

“No. After all, he managed to save your life. Thirteen years old, and he faced death bravely.”

Jared froze, shocked. He hadn’t mentioned anything about how Shin-ju saved him from being caught by the Occultists one week ago.

“Wha… what do you mean?” the Merchant asked weakly.

“The burns on his arms,” Akira explained himself. “Accidents around the campfire do not scar you like that, unless you fall into the fire three times in succession.”

Jared nodded in resignation. There was no fooling Akira.

“No, he did not fall into the campfire. He defended himself against a Sorcerer’s Napalm spell.” Akira smiled before continuing. “And won. Very, very impressive indeed.”

The Merchant felt tired. “I didn’t want to involve anyone else in this, Akira.”

“I am certain you did not,” Akira answered. “But it has already been done. Shin-ju is now a target of the Occultists.”

Jared shook his head dismally.

“Still,” Akira continued abruptly, “silly to worry, I suppose. You now have the support of the Shogunate. The word of the Taishou is as good as the Shogun’s. It will all be done in a matter of days, and things will be back to normal for you.”

“If only it was that easy, too,” Jared sighed, feeling something in his inside coat pocket. “The One Who Waits… the things I’ve learned tonight doesn’t make me feel one bit better.

• • •

“The One Who Waits?”

Jared stepped back in surprise. The voice wasn’t Akira’s—someone was coming up from the stone steps in front of them. Instinctively, Akira took one step forward and prepared to draw his Katana in defense of the Merchant.

“Yamakuno Akira, Komichi Na Ryuuki. Who goes there?” Akira demanded calmly, his hand on the ornate sword’s hilt.

A tall man reached the top step and stood under the Courtyard’s entrance torii. Akira judged the man to be easily over six feet tall and weighing two hundred pounds, but carried no weapon and had no aura of hostility about him. He and Jared waited as the man reached up to take off his sakkat.

“Makimachi Mikieru, Niya-Bojutsu Ryu,” the man announced, showing the two friends his eyes—one iris a deep blue, the other an Elfish green.

The two friends recognized the man as soon as the moonlight reflected off his silver cross.

• • •

Yoriko had decided that she wanted to visit the Tao Shrine first, and Shin-ju agreed. The girl led him through the crowds to an area northwest of the city, over a sturdy wooden bridge that led to a complex of curved-roofed temples that looked like miniature replicas of the impressive Shogunate Halls.

There were decidedly fewer people here than in the Festival, and Yoriko had no trouble finding a vacant altar.

“Here, Shin-ju-kun,” Yoriko beckoned, handing Shin-ju a few incense sticks. “Light them with the fire and make a wish.”

Shin-ju took the sticks with hesitation. “Um, it’s just…”

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s… it’s just that I don’t really believe in these things.”

Yoriko giggled. “Really? You do not believe in a higher power?”

Shin-ju took a look at the altar. It was made of wood, framed on three sides and open on one. A curved, four-sided roof shielded it from the elements. The altar itself consisted of four banners with Payonese characters hanging over a small stone furnace. Beautiful flowers adorned the sides of the furnace, as well as several receptacles for the incense sticks in front of it. It was unlike any other altar that Shin-ju had seen in his life, though he admitted to himself that there was something spiritual about the place.

“I do,” Shin-ju sighed. “It’s just…”

“Then that is all that matters,” Yoriko reassured the boy. “To believe in a higher power… a greater scheme… that is the wisdom of the Tao. Would it not be wonderful if you could communicate with this power and make your wishes known?”

Shin-ju nodded.

Yoriko smiled. “Just do as I do, Shin-ju-kun.”

The boy watched as she took the sticks in her hands and pushed their ends into the furnace. A sweet scent soon permeated the altar. Then Yoriko pulled the sticks from the fire, held them between her palms, and closed her eyes in prayer.

Shin-ju slowly followed suit, though he held the sticks in one hand and kept his eyes open while he thought of something to wish for. He asked himself what he wanted most, and soon found his thoughts drifting into the past.

• • •

“So,” a soft female voice asked. “Found it yet?”

• • •

“Shin-ju-kun, what is your name?”

Shin-ju turned to Yoriko, finding the girl’s green eyes deeply staring into his own gray gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Shin-ju stammered, shaking his head as if snapping out of a trance. “My name?”

“Hai,” she answered. “I wanted to make a wish for you, but I need to tell the Tao your full name. May I know what it is?”

Shin-ju looked blankly at her, then turned back to the altar as if looking for the right way to say it.

Yoriko bit her lip. “Of course,” she admitted, turning away. “We are the same. We do not have names apart from the ones given to us by the real humans. Just like the name given to me by my father.”

Shin-ju nodded. “I’m sorry, Yoriko,” he apologized. “But Shin-ju is just about all I could give you at this point.”

Yoriko thought about this for a moment, then smiled when an idea occurred to me.

“Shin-ju-kun,” Yoriko said, pointing to a circular symbol in the middle of the altar’s rear wall. “Do you know what that is?”

Shin-ju squinted. It was a circle, divided in the middle by a curved line. One side of the circle was black, and the other was white. In addition, two smaller circles of the opposing color were found in each of the two sides. He had seen this symbol on the temple entrance.

“No, Yoriko,” Shin-ju apologized again. “What is it?”

“It is called the Yin-Yang,” Yoriko explained. “It is the collective symbol of the Tao. It represents the two opposing forces that create the balance in the world. Yin and Yang: the positive and negative aspects that represent summer and winter, heat and cold, night and day, and other opposites.”

Shin-ju eyed the girl as she talked, noticing again that the girl was very bright for her age.

“I will tell you a secret,” the girl confided. “My name is not really Yamakuno Yoriko, even if I claim it to be when I am asked for it. But I am not of the Yamakuno clan. I love my father very much, but the truth is that the bond we share is not biological. He understood this. Instead, he gave me this name: Yin Yoriko.”

The boy’s lips mimicked the pronunciation of her real name.

“My father gave me the name Yin because, like the Yin in the Yin-Yang, I was cold, calm, and quiet. Yin is also the ‘feminine’ side of the Yin-Yang, which added to the significance.”

She turned to him, smiling serenely.

“Maybe I can give you a name too, Shin-ju-kun. If I am Yin, then you are Yang.”

“Yang…” Shin-ju uttered.

“Yes. Yang represents warmth, movement, and energy. Yang is you. Yang Shin-ju. Shin-ju Yang. It sounds nice, does it not?”

“Shin-ju Yang,” he repeated, this time with a smile on his face. “I like it… very much.”

“I am happy!” the girl giggled, clasping the sticks with both hands again. “Now I can finish my wish!”

The two kids closed their eyes and prayed. Shin-ju felt a quiet joy welling up in his heart. He had a name! And it was given to him by a girl who trusted him enough to give him the opposite aspect of her own! The boy reveled in the feeling of being trusted—he had never felt so accepted in his entire life.

While Yoriko was praying, Shin-ju sneaked a look at her. The boy quietly admitted to himself that he liked her very, very much.

• • •

To be continued

[Mikey]

“The Tao must be smiling upon me these days, as I have had the good fortune of meeting two old friends again,” Akira intoned dreamily as he, Jared, and Mikieru walked towards the city from the Shogunate Halls. “Although it begs the question as to why you are here, Mikieru. Am I to suspect that you are also here for to celebrate the Midsummer Festival with our kin?”

Jared sneaked a look at the tall Cleric. It was hard to discern Mikieru’s emotions since his eyes were hidden behind his dark, round-rimmed glasses. Not that the glasses mattered, Jared reminded himself—the Cleric always had a stone-face that betrayed little, if any, of his emotions. None of Mikieru’s countenance had changed in six years.

“It is also good to see you again, Akira-sama,” Mikieru answered quietly. “But I am not here for the Festival. We both know well enough that I am not as closely related to the Orients as you are.”

Jared swallowed edgily, knowing that Mikieru was talking about his Elf-eye. Mikieru had always considered himself a Demi-human before anything else.

“Come now,” the Shousa laughed. “There is no reason to be so dismal. Perhaps you could tell Jared and I what brings you to Payon? I would certainly like to hear your reasons.”

Mikieru nodded, adjusting the level of his sakkat’s brim. “This morning, I received a letter from my apprentice, Shin-ju. In it, I saw Jared’s name and the name of your Inn, the Ronin Rest. I immediately felt compelled to leave Prontera and find you here.”

“Whoa,” Jared blurted out. “Shin-ju is your apprentice? No wonder the little guy reminds me so much of you!”

The Cleric turned to Jared with the slightest smile. “And it is good to see you as well, Jared. No, he is not technically my apprentice yet. He has not graduated from Novicehood. He has shown interest in learning more of the Holy Arts, however. If I am to judge by what he has shown me as of yet, I am certain that he will make a fine Acolyte.”

“I see that as well,” Akira agreed. “I am heartened to know that you are well, Mikieru. Even after all that misfortune that befell you and your troop after the War, you still manage to find a good career in the Constabulary and even find a suitable youth to take your place one day.”

Jared looked up at the starry sky as they passed from under a cherry tree. “It’s been, how long?” he asked. “Five years? Six? Back in that Desert Camp?”

The three old friends stopped to glance at the night sky. Each of them remembered seeing such a sky in Sograt Desert, six years ago, at the onset of the Frontier War. The stars brought back memories, both good and terrible.

“Six years, yes,” Akira admitted. “I was a field major back then, on the push to Morroc. Mikieru was a lieutenant on the Antioc front. And you, Jared, were a scammer.”

Jared guffawed. “No way!”

“At least, I thought you were,” Akira laughed. “You were going from tent to tent, asking me for all my money and promising to make it grow. How was I to believe you? You were only a fifteen-year old Merchant trying to get rich quick selling your weapons and potions in that Desert Camp.”

“Hah! And you must’ve thought I pulled one over you when you gave me all your money!”

“At that point I did not believe I was going to come back from the Morroc front alive, that is why. In retrospect, perhaps, I believe it was a good choice on my part.”

“Yep. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have your Inn!”

“Precisely.”

Jared noticed that Mikieru was still looking into the sky, even while he and Akira were trading old stories about how they first met. Good-naturedly, he elbowed the Cleric at the arm.

“Don’t tell me you’re regretting not giving me all your cash back then, eh, Mike?” he asked jovially.

Mikieru wasn’t the least bit amused. “No,” he answered, his eyes still on the stars. “I am only regretting the fact that there used to be four of us in our merry little circle.”

The smiles on the faces of Mikieru’s two old friends faded as they heard this.

• • •

Shin-ju and Yoriko had a great time after they left the Tao Shrine. They watched shows. They bought new hats. They ate candy. They played games. They did not leave a single booth unvisited.

There were more than a few curious glances thrown their way by the Payonese citizens. It was surprising to most people—unsettling, even, for some—to see two Demi-humans mingling in the Festival. But the two kids didn’t notice any of the attention—they were having the time of their lives.

At ten in the evening, they sat on a quiet hillside a short distance from the city. They had come to watch the fireworks being lit from Payon’s central square. There were other people on the hillside—children, mostly, and their parents—and together they all watched as the streaks of fire flew up into the night sky, impossibly high, before they exploded into colorful plumes of light.

Yoriko had been talkative during their trek through the festive streets. Sitting beside Shin-ju on the quiet hillside, however, not a word passed through her lips. The boy noticed this, and he cleared his throat to break the uncomfortable silence.

“What are you thinking of, Yoriko?” he asked.

Yoriko had a peaceful look on her face, the fireworks reflecting off her misty green eyes. “It is a perfect night,” she said, not turning to look at him. “The stars are all out, the fireworks are beautiful, and you are here with me.”

The girl edged closer to the boy until their shoulders were touching.

“Why do you feel so troubled, Shin-ju Yang?” she asked. “How can you see all of this and not be happy?”

Shin-ju took a moment before giving an uneasy reply. “You’re… you’re lucky to be so tranquil about things.”

The girl sighed heavily.

“Fate… the One Who Waits… Demi-humanity… They mean nothing to me right now,” she said. “Me, I just want this moment to last forever.”

Shin-ju looked at her face, staring at the show of lights above them, for a few moments. Then he turned back to the sky, thinking of what she just said.

Nothing lasts forever, he thought, closing his eyes at the idea. I realized that long ago. I was like you at first, Yoriko, but something happened… something terrible… that showed me that fantasy has no place in this reality. You can’t keep wishing for these things. It will kill you when you realize that the world is much, much crueler than you could ever imagine.

Suddenly Shin-ju opened his eyes with a start. A flush of red came over his face as he realized that Yoriko had willingly leaned her head on his shoulder. His heart rate doubled, his eyes moistened—and he suddenly felt a surge of emotion as the girl reminded him of how he used to feel…

…before he left the Desert.

But… Shin-ju thought. I… I do want the same thing as you do, Yoriko. I do want this moment to last forever… even if it won’t.

The boy felt the tension in his chest soften as he allowed himself to wrap his arm around the girl’s shoulders and gently pull her closer to him.

• • •

“Yes, there used to be four of us,” Akira said dolefully. “It is sad to see that he has fallen so far.”

Mikieru nodded. “Garrione thought vengeance was the answer. It was not, is not, and never will be.”

Jared opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it at the last moment.

The three friends were standing on a viewing pavilion above the hillside where Shin-ju and Yoriko were sitting. Their trip down memory lane had led them here, and they had stopped to watch the fireworks. It was calming to see something so beautiful when their thoughts—all three of them—bordered on the dark and troubled.

“Garrione always believed in dark justice,” Akira mentioned as the fireworks plumed in the distance. “But justice, nonetheless. Back then, each one of us had the same ideals… only different paths to them. I believed peace was the right path.”

“I believed in prosperity,” Jared offered.

”I believed in atonement,” Mikieru finished. “And Garrione… Garrione believed in violence.”

There was silence between the three friends for several moments.

“Look at those two,” Jared finally piped up, leaning on the wooden railings and looking down the hillside. “They don’t seem to be worried about anything.”

Mikieru and Akira both took a step towards the railing and looked at the grassy slopes below them. In the distance, they recognized the serene forms of Shin-ju and Yoriko sitting on the hillside close to each other.

“I wonder what they believe in, y’know?” the Merchant asked dreamily. “For sure, it seems to be working a lot better for them than our own beliefs are working for us.”

Akira was disquieted. Only a few hours ago, he watched with glad interest as his daughter went to the Festival with this remarkable Nomad boy. Now, however, seeing Yoriko very friendly with Shin-ju, a natural racial bias welled up inside him, making him wonder whether allowing his daughter spend time alone with Shin-ju was the right thing for him to do.

Likewise, Mikieru’s mouth tightened when he saw Shin-ju’s arm wrapped across Yoriko’s shoulders. For the past several months he had been under the impression that Shin-ju was priming himself for an Acolyte’s life—and here he was, being especially comfortable with a girl his age. The mere thought unsettled the Cleric, almost to the point that Garrione was erased from his mind—and Mikieru suddenly felt the impulse to do something about it.

“Peace? Prosperity? Atonement?” Jared chuckled, his chin on his forearms. “Those kids just wanna have fun. They just wanna be happy. Isn’t that what justice is really about?”

Akira and Mikieru had no immediate answer to this.

“Garrione’s not gonna give up so easily. He’s gonna give us the worst of his violence before he does. This whole thing will come to blows, guys—and believe me, blood is gonna be spilled before we reach an end to all of this.”

Jared sighed, feeling the Stone in his coat’s inside pocket.

“We owe them an apology, guys,” the Merchant finished, looking down at the two youngsters.

Akira and Mikieru both took notice of their surroundings. A cool evening breeze was blowing through the Highlands, bringing with it the calming scent of pine. There was not a cloud that hid a single star in the sky, and the fireworks in the distance hailed without ceasing. False hope, they both knew—like the calmest of moments that prevail before the most violent of storms.

“Yes,” Akira admitted.

“Yes, we do,” Mikieru admitted as well.

• • •

End of Chapter Five

[Mikey]

Chapter Six
Leaving Payon

Yoriko Yamakuno hummed happily while she folded up her futon, and her father Akira noticed it. The sliding door to the girl’s bedroom was slightly open.

Akira peeked in, watching his daughter tidy up her beddings and prepare for the new day ahead. The old Knight could not help but frown as he observed how the girl smilingly tucked her futon into her closet and walked towards her mirror. He shook his head when he saw her put a spot of perfume on her finger and dab it on both sides of her neck. And he felt a drop of sweat roll down the back of his head when she combed her long black hair, brushing it backwards-instead of parting her hair in the middle, letting it fall over her face, like she always did-and put on a nice-looking flowered headband to hold her hair back from her pretty green eyes.

Akira swallowed. Yoriko had told him yesterday, quite happily, that it was Shin-ju who bought the perfume and headband for her.

Yoriko had been in a very amiable mood since two nights ago, when she and her new friend Shin-ju Yang toured the Midsummer Festival. She felt even better when she found out yesterday that Jared Wycrow had decided to postpone leaving for Al de Baran by one day. Their guests will be staying at their Inn for one more night.

“Oh,” Yoriko squeaked, seeing her father at the door when she stepped out. “Hallo, Papa. It is a beautiful morning.”

Akira’s mouth was tight as he leaned down to be kissed by his daughter at the cheek. Wordlessly, the old Knight watched as the young girl trotted down the hallway with light steps, humming all the way. Too late, Akira noticed that she was heading towards Shin-ju’s room.

“Yoriko, where are you going?” Akira demanded, surprising himself with the frantic tone in his voice.

The girl stopped walking and turned around, her smile gone from her face and replaced with a cautious look.

“I… am… going to fix breakfast, Papa,” she answered warily. “Is… there something you want me to do before that?”

Akira bit his tongue. Yoriko was only passing by Shin-ju’s room-she was actually heading for the stairs.

“Of course, of course,” Akira stammered, slightly red. “I… no, there’s nothing I…”

Before Akira knew it, his daughter was standing in front of him, her green Elf-eyes looking worriedly into his as she tiptoed to feel his forehead.

“Are you unwell, Papa?” she asked innocently. “You look feverish.”

Akira shook his head, trying to smile a bit. “No, no. I am all right, Yoriko. It is only… well… how do I put this… how-how old are you, Yoriko?”

The girl stared at her father wonderingly. “Thirteen, Papa.”

Akira swallowed again-never in his life did he think he would have to explain the birds and the bees to his daughter like this. He desperately tried to find another way.

“It is just this, Yoriko,” the old Knight stammered, his hand on the girl’s shoulder as he led her down the hall. “Shin-ju… he is… well… er… he is nice, is he not?”

A grin crept its way into the girl’s lips. “Yes!” she replied, rather enthusiastically.

“Yes, he is,” Akira exhaled. “But Yoriko, there is one very important thing you must know about him. Boys like Shin-ju have… well… they have… they have expectations…”

Yoriko listened with wide-eyed interest as her father led her down the stairs.

• • •

Shin-ju sat at the back porch of the Ronin Rest, slowly removing the bandages on his arms. The burns had healed. He tried not to think of Yoriko, who had carefully put the wraps over those burns only three days ago. She made him think of how Mikieru had admonished him the previous night.

Shin-ju had a shock yesterday when he realized that Mikieru was also staying in the Ronin Rest. The Cleric’s greeting was rather cold-Mikieru immediately took Shin-ju to his room and talked to him in private.

‘You wrote that you had some things to find out,’ Mikieru had asked him. ‘What are those things, Shin-ju?’

The boy’s mouth tightened as he took the wrappings from his left forearm. He remembered how he wasn’t able to give Mikieru a reply. It was clear, however, that the Cleric had known the answer all along.

‘Remember the Rosary I gave you,’ the Cleric had warned, finishing the short but tense sermon. ‘Once you put it on your wrist, it is a reminder of a total surrender. Do not wear it if you intend to pursue a relationship with Yoriko-chan-platonic or otherwise.’

Shin-ju almost tore the bandages from his right forearm when he was reminded of Mikieru’s warning. What does he know about my feelings? Shin-ju thought, rather angrily. I thought he’d come by to congratulate me on how well I’m doing with Blessing training! And here he is, telling me not to be friends with Yoriko? Does he even have any idea about how I feel?

For the very first time, Shin-ju sensed in himself an honest, however misguided, dislike for Mikieru.

The Nomad boy threw the bandages aside and jumped to his feet, walking onto the lawn. The sun was only peeking over the horizon to the east, and most of Payon was still under a shadow. The sky was already bright enough, however, for Shin-ju to see around him.

In the middle of the yard, Shin-ju planted his feet and shot an intense look at an imaginary enemy in front of him. If there was anything that could satisfy the anger in him, it was practicing his special fighting style.

Quietly, he began to devise a chain-combo in his mind.

• • •

“…and that, Yoriko, is why you should be careful around Shin-ju,” Akira finished. “It is too early for you to get into a relationship and have your heart broken… or worse… you remember what I told you, yes? I mean-you remember everything I have told you, yes?”

Yoriko bit back the honest impulse to shake her head no. Her father’s lecture was a veritable hodgepodge of physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual, biological, and philosophical lessons in life that he had managed to put into words in a single trip down the stairs. She had never seen her father so vague.

“I am sorry, Papa,” Yoriko answered. “But I think I got lost after the word ‘expectations…’”

Akira cleared his throat in exasperation. “But I am sure you have an idea of what I am trying to tell you, Yoriko,” the old Knight said as they made their way to the kitchen. “You are too young to be getting into a relationship, and I, your father, would appreciate it if you took a little more caution in choosing your friends…”

“Papa, Shin-ju is my only friend.”

“Exactly, and that’s…” Akira stopped, realizing that she was right. He was caught between choosing whether to deprive his daughter of her only friend or to let her make her own choices-and risk getting herself into serious trouble.

The old Knight turned away and headed for the sliding door that led to the backyard. He had never felt the need to be a father to Yoriko before now.

He opened the sliding door in time to see Shin-ju execute his new chain-combo.

• • •

FLYING ROUNDHOUSE-AXE KICK-FLYING BACK KICK-BACK THRUST KICK-SOMERSAULT FLASH KICK!

Shin-ju released five lightning-fast kicks in quick succession. Akira and Yoriko stood motionless in the doorway, staring in awe as Shin-ju somersaulted backwards high up in the air and landed squarely on his feet.

“YIAH!” Shin-ju yelled, leaping forward and throwing a savage low punch aimed at his imaginary opponent’s chest. It was a hasty finishing move, and he wasn’t satisfied. He needed to try it one more time.

• • •

Clap-clap-clap.

Shin-ju turned towards the patio. Akira was clapping his hands. Yoriko stood still, staring intently at the boy.

“Brilliant,” Akira said, not noticing his prejudice of Shin-ju was immediately replaced by a peer’s admiration. “Absolutely brilliant, Shin-ju-kun. What do you call that move?”

Shin-ju sheepishly scratched the back of his head. “Er-I don’t know, Akira-sama,” he answered. “I… I just came up with it today.”

“That is all right,” Akira answered. “Perhaps you can instead tell me the name of this interesting fighting style of yours.”

Shin-ju scratched his head again, looking up.

Akira grinned. “You just came up with your fighting style today, too?”

Shin-ju laughed. “N-no, of course not, Akira-sama. I guess it’s just my version of street fighting. I developed it on my own while I was… er… traveling.”

“I see. Do you enjoy practicing it?”

”Oh, yes. Very much so.”

“Then perhaps we can practice together.”

“Really? You know how to street-fight too, Akira-sama?”

“No, but the swordfighting style that I advocate also has a system of moves for bare-handed fighting.”

“The Komichi Na Ryuuki?”

Akira paused. “You have heard of it, then?”

“Jared’s told me a bit about it. He said it’s a fighting style that allows you to switch from offense and defense very quickly. It differs from Chivalry swordfighting greatly, and it requires a one-edged sword and good footwork.”

“That is correct, Shin-ju-kun.” Akira leaned forward. “I can help you a little with your new move too, if you like.”

Shin-ju’s face lit up. “Really? You will?”

“Yes. Now tell me, what do you think went wrong when you executed the move just now?”

Shin-ju thought quickly. “I wasn’t used to shifting from one move to the other,” he answered. “And I veered off a little during the two back-kicks. It’s easy to lose balance.”

“An acceptable observation. Now what do you think is the problem?”

“Er…” Shin-ju pondered. “Inexperience?”

“Partly, perhaps. But the main problem lies in your footwork.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It is a common problem for most self-taught fighters like you. You land and pivot too heavily on your heels and bone of your feet. Not only does it hamper your balance, but it also weakens the soles of your feet more quickly.”

Shin-ju was listening keenly. “I see... so what should I do?”

Akira knelt and lifted Shin-ju’s foot off the grass. “You need to learn how to distribute your weight and impact to other parts of your feet. For instance, when you pivot on your back-kicks…” Akira placed his finger on the bone of Shin-ju’s foot, “I noticed that you placed your weight very heavily on your bone.”

“I did?” Shin-ju asked. He wasn’t even sure.

“Yes, you did.”

“But I can’t pivot using my heel.”

“No, you cannot. But you can use the sides of your feet instead,” Akira explained, running his finger on the outer side of Shin-ju's foot. “Remember, you switched from a roundhouse-axe kick-a sideways motion-to a back-kick, a forwards motion. To rely on your heels and bones alone would compromise your balance.”

Akira put Shin-ju’s foot down and rose. “You will be surprised to realize how strong the sides of your feet can be. Now, do your move again. This time, try to feel your feet as waves. Let them roll. Once you get the feel for it, your kicks will be easier to execute.”

Shin-ju smiled as he absorbed Akira's lesson. “All right, I will. Thank you, Akira-sama!”

• • •

Yoriko watched as Shin-ju executed his move perfectly the first time he retried it. Akira clapped his hands again heartily while the boy leaped in celebration.

She smiled as a thought occurred to her. Shin-ju and her father shared a common interest in their fighting styles-perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard for Akira to accept Shin-ju as her friend if they spent some more time together.

Secretly, however, she bit her lip guiltily. She didn’t have the heart to tell her father that she already knew about the birds and the bees. If she did, it wouldn’t even matter if she told him that she and Shin-ju have already talked about their limits-Akira would forbid her to see him the moment he found out.

• • •

To be continued

[Mikey]

“We’re leaving first thing in the morning tomorrow, Mike,” Jared said, stuffing a shirt into his backpack. “You might wanna pack up in advance so you could sleep better tonight.”

“I am ready to leave anytime, Jared,” Mikieru answered.

“Of course you are,” the Merchant laughed, slapping his own forehead. “Who the heck do I think I’m talking to?”

Mikieru was sitting on the edge of the bed in Jared’s room, offering company while the Merchant packed his belongings. It was midafternoon, and the thought that they would be leaving in less than twelve hours excited Jared a bit.

“I heard from Shin-ju that you’re working as a Constable these days,” Jared piped up. “It must be really tough on you to work a rank-and-file job after being a field lieutenant for three years.”

Mikieru nodded, shrugging off the Merchant’s lack of tact in starting his conversations. “True, it is not the job for me. But keeping the peace seems to be the only kind of work for which I am suited.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet there’s a lot to keep you busy in Prontera… what with all those Occultists running around. Does it get dangerous?”

“Sometimes. But danger is a relative term, especially after serving in the Frontier War. It is not a problem.”

“I guess the real problem is the wages.”

“Exactly. Between paying my rent and taxes, I get little spare to feed myself and Shin-ju, let alone save up for the boy’s education.”

Jared nodded, folding a brown jacket in his hands. “Yup, I know how it is,” he stated, pushing the jacket into his bag. “Y’know, if things were okay, I could probably help y’out a bit… except…”

The Merchant paused, noticing that the next item he was about to put into his bag was a rock-a smooth, three-sided gray stone.

“Except only that things are not okay,” Mikieru finished for the Merchant.

Jared nodded grimly, his fingers tightening around the Stone. Thoughts of Garrione invaded his psyche-followed by the image of a beautiful, blonde-haired, captive Elf.

“Damn it,” Jared spat quietly. “Damn it all to hell. Why did this have to happen to me? I’m just a Merchant, for cryin’ out loud! Why’d I have to be the great-grandson of a Goldraider? Why’d he pick me to take care of this stupid rock?”

Mikieru listened quietly.

“Tell you the truth, Mike-I really don’t care about any of this One Who Waits crap. I just want Napolde back. I just wanna hand the rock over to Garrione to get this over with. This is all that matters to me. Why does everything have to be so frickin’ complicated?”

There was silence for a while.

“Fate?” Jared ventured weakly.

“No such thing,” Mikieru finally answered. “Our lives are shaped by the choices we make.”

“If that’s the case, maybe I should’ve just handed it over when Garrione asked for it the first time,” the Merchant retorted.

The Cleric nodded. “But you didn’t.”

At this, the Merchant had no answer.

“It is obvious to me that the bond between you and this Elf is… more than ordinary, Jared.”

“It is,” Jared admitted.

“Tell me about it?”

Jared sat back, the Stone in both of his hands. Idly, he turned the rock until he saw the tiny Nordic etchings on it.

“Y’know, at first I thought I was okay just running my Trading Post in Al de Baran. It was… my world, Mike. I thought maybe I could keep this up for a few years and save up enough to build a small hotel or something. Y’know… something to keep me fed for the rest of my life.

“Then Napolde showed up on my doorstep. She showed me the papers, then she showed me the vault… and then she showed me the Stone. I thought it was some century-old joke, but she seemed so taken by the find. She never let me forget that I was in possession of an extremely valuable item… and then later, after having her stay in the Trading Post for a few days, she began to show me other things.

“I dunno how to explain it, Mike… but it was like she brought a sort of awakening to me. She slowly revealed to me what lay in the world outside. She told me of the beauty of her Elven home hidden deep in the forests… of mythical Dwarves tunneling deep under the ground and their grand mountain halls… and most of all of the great Human spirit that thrived in my heart.”

“Your heart,” Mikieru repeated.

“Yeah,” Jared laughed, his eyes moist. “Couldja believe it? I was taken by that remark. Even my own parents thought I wouldn’t amount to anything more than a cart trader. Here she was, telling me about my great Human spirit-and believing in it with all her might!

“It was weird, Mike… it was an awakening, like I said… it was like, overnight, everything she was talking about made sense to me. She made me feel more than just a trader… she made me feel special… and she believed I was more than what I appeared to be. It didn’t take long before I wanted to believe it, too.”

There was a pause.

“Then it is no wonder why you decided not to give Garrione the Stone,” Mikieru concluded. “You believed in every word she said.”

Jared turned to Mikieru frantically. “Mike, we gotta save her,” he begged. “I dunno what I’d do if something happened to her.”

Mikieru nodded, leaning forward and laying a large hand on the Merchant’s shoulder. “Tomorrow morning, Jared,” he assured him, “I will be up before everyone else.”

• • •

Mikieru waited in front of the Ronin Rest. He had been up for an hour. He stood unmoving at the Inn’s front fence, his eyes moving between the Inn’s empty entrance patio and the four Payon Knights who waited behind him.

The Payon Knights had been sent by the Shogunate to serve as escorts for the trip to Al de Baran. They were to see to the safety of Mikieru, Jared, and Shin-ju for the duration of the voyage. The Cleric knew that it was merely a symbol of the Taishou’s word of honor-a breach of which would be unacceptable in Oriental standards.

The armored Knights were mounted on Peco-pecos. Each of them was armed with a Katana slung on their left hips. Mikieru eyed each one of the ornate swords curiously, noticing their unique hilts-and something else…

Mikieru turned back to the Inn’s entrance when he heard the doors slide open. Akira and Jared stepped out, carrying the Merchant’s bags, followed by a very quiet Shin-ju.

Akira was doing most of the talking. “I am sure that if there was any fighting in Prontera within the past three days, it will have abated by now. The five hundred decommissioned from the Sograt Garrisons are probably on their way to Al de Baran as we speak-they might already be there, even.”

“Isn’t there any way to find out?” Jared asked, nodding at Mikieru as he neared the gate.

“This operation is confidential, and the field reports are sent directly to the Taishou before the information is disseminated to me and the rest of the Shogunate. All military activities are under his administration, after all… and I am expecting a full report on the operation on my desk today.”

“Hmh,” Jared sniffed. “In other words, no.”

Akira laughed, handing the Merchant his backpack. “I will let you know as soon as I can, Jared… though I am sure you will find out before I do. You just take care of yourself, all right?”

“I will,” the Merchant promised, mounting his Peco-peco. “Once this is all over, Payon is the place I’ll be coming back to.”

“Good,” Akira said. “Then I will have the pleasure of meeting her.”

Jared nodded, thinking of the fond idea.

“The Ronin Rest will always have a room for you, Jared Wycrow,” Akira announced. “I will be waiting for your return.”

The Merchant extended his hand, and Akira shook it with both of his.

“Thank you, old friend,” Jared said quietly.

• • •

“Shin-ju, matte kudasai!”

A serene tinkling sound accompanied Yoriko’s steps down the front pathwalk as she hastened towards Shin-ju. The boy stopped and turned around.

“Here,” the girl squeaked breathlessly, handing the boy a sakkat. “It might be a tiring ride, and you will need this to shield your eyes from the sun.”

Shin-ju didn’t smile, but he slowly extended his hands to receive the girl’s gift. The sakkat had a chime attached to its circular brim, and it made a tinny sound when the boy took the hat from her hands.

“Thank you, Yoriko,” he said cheerlessly. “It’s pretty.”

“Please be careful,” she continued. “I… I will miss you.”

Shin-ju nodded. He wanted to say the same thing to her, but knew that Mikieru was still within earshot.

“You will write to me, yes?” she insisted.

Shin-ju looked at her and smiled a bit. Quickly, he raised the wide-brimmed hat up to their faces to hide them from Mikieru’s view-and snuck an unexpected kiss on Yoriko’s cheek.

The sakkat did little to keep Mikieru from knowing what Shin-ju did, however-the Cleric saw the bright red flush that came over Yoriko’s face when Shin-ju lowered the sakkat.

“I’ll come by and see you when this is all over,” Shin-ju reassured her. “I promise.”

The two kids stared at each other for a sad moment.

“Bye,” Shin-ju whispered finally, turning around and walking towards his Peco-peco.

Shin-ju passed by Mikieru without a word, avoiding the Cleric’s eyes as he watched the boy head for his Peco-peco.

• • •

Mikieru’s stone-face did not show any emotion. He merely turned to Akira to nod his goodbyes. No words were necessary between him and the old Knight-Akira’s eyes told the Cleric to take care of his companions, and Mikieru understood immediately.

“Ready?” Jared asked.

Shin-ju looked back at Yoriko and her father. They were waving.

Mikieru rode alongside Jared. “Let’s go,” he answered.

Jared gave the signal, and the seven riders started moving in the direction of the Fort City's main gate.

Left behind, Yoriko sighed miserably. Akira walked to his daughter’s side and laid his hand on her shoulder. Together they watched as their three friends and their escorts disappear.

Behind them, the sun peeked over the mountaintops, and the Fort City began to stir.

• • •

End of Chapter Six

[Mikey]

Chapter Seven
Mysterious Circumstances

The sky had already been dark for an hour when Mikieru, Jared, Shin-ju, and their four escorts rode up the hilly slopes towards Prontera’s South Gate. They had not stopped once during the ride-Mikieru had denied Jared’s requests to stop for their meals. It surprised the Merchant a bit. He himself wanted to reach the Northern Capital in the shortest possible time, but the Cleric’s sternness about riding on unsettled him slightly.

Not a word came out of Shin-ju during the entirety of the eighteen-hour ride. He wasn’t used to Peco riding, and his back hurt badly. The boy shared Jared’s sentiments about stopping once in a while, but he hesitated about saying anything. He and Mikieru weren’t on speaking terms-or, at least, he felt thus.

Tension gripped Jared when the torch-bearing South Gate Sentries approached Mikieru warily. The fighting must be over, the Merchant thought. Parts of Merchant’s Alley must be bloodstained by now…

“Your ID, Father?” one of the Sentries demanded, eyeing Shin-ju shiftily.

Mikieru took out his Constabulary ID and handed it to the Sentry. “Brother,” he corrected. “Brother Mikieru Makimachi, party leader. This is Jared Wycrow, Merchant from Al de Baran, and Shin-ju, my Apprentice. The Payon Knights are our escorts, commissioned from Payon.”

“Apprentice?” the Sentry sniffed. “You’re telling me this Nomad is going to be a Priest one day?”

Mikieru glanced at Shin-ju, whose eyes were turned in another direction.

“If he chooses,” the Cleric answered.

“Fine,” the Sentry said impatiently, handing Mikieru’s ID back. “What’s your business here, then?”

“We are under orders of the Shogunate. We were to ride to Prontera three days after the Sograt Garrison Knights engage the Old Occultists here. How goes the battle?”

Another Sentry raised his eyebrows. “What battle?”

Jared’s eyes widened at this remark. Shin-ju looked up, surprised.

Mikieru’s mouth was tight. “You mean to tell me that a battle did not take place here? No Payon Knights? No Occultists?”

The Sentries looked at each other before answering. “Frankly, Brother, your escorts are the first Payon Knights we’ve seen in months.”

“What?” Jared blurted out. “That can’t be!”

“Strange,” Mikieru admitted calmly. “In any case, sirs, my party requires entry to Prontera. If there is nothing else, may we be on our way?”

Once more, the Sentries cast skeptical looks at Shin-ju before waving the party through. “Very well,” they said. “Stay out of trouble and there will be no problems.”

• • •

“Did I hear that right?” Jared whispered as they rode their way into Merchant’s Alley. “No battle?”

Mikieru did not answer. His eyes instead scanned their surroundings. Merchant’s Alley was bustling as usual, with shops and ale houses open and teeming with their usual patrons and activity.

“No sign of Occultists,” Mikieru whispered back. “And no sign of Payon Knights either.”

“Something’s not right, Mike,” the Merchant muttered warily. Their escorts were likewise looking around in vain for any of their peers in the City.

Shin-ju meanwhile rode quietly behind the two men, covering his nose with disdain. He noticed how different the air here was from the clean Payonese atmosphere. The roads were dusty, the buildings were sooty, and the storm drains were clogged. He wondered how he managed to stay in this city for five months and not notice the filth that hung in the air on a regular basis.

“What should we do?” Jared asked.

Mikieru exhaled. “I am tired. Let us find an Inn and get a room. Perhaps there will be news from Akira in the morning.”

• • •

It was past midnight, and the room occupied by the three companions was silent. Mikieru had ordered Jared and Shin-ju to get some sleep and wait until morning to have something to eat. Jared and Shin-ju were starving, but were too tired-and too intimidated, admittedly-to argue with the Cleric.

Only the light from a lamp-post in the street below them threw any semblance of conscious life in the bedroom.

The door to their bedroom swung slowly open.

Silently, three dark figures crept into the room. Each stopped beside a bed. Without a sound they drew out sharp, curved swords from under their coats and held them over the beds, the deadly points aimed downwards at the chests of the three sleeping companions.

The faint fire-light reflected in both the blades and the figures' murderous eyes.

• • •

Suddenly one of the beds glowed. The three masked assassins stared at it for a second, distracted.

From under the sheets of the bed, a glowing gloved fist shot up and smashed under the chin of the assassin next to it. The assassin dropped his sword, flew upwards, and crashed through the plywood ceiling.

The first assassin hung from the ceiling, unconscious, his head embedded into the wood.

Shocked, the other two assassins threw their swords down and stabbed at their respective beds. The second assassin thrust his sword repeatedly, only to curse in the realization that he form under the sheets wasn’t a person-they were pillows formed in the shape of a sleeping man. Already, feathers and fluff were flying around the bed.

The third assassin stabbed once, only to stop when he realized a lithe form had shot out of the bed, sending the sheets flying.

It was Shin-ju, very awake and very angry.

Planting his feet on the wall, Shin-ju pushed off it with all his might, flying towards his assassin and burying his knee between the masked man’s eyes. The force carried them both towards the opposite wall, where Shin-ju drove the assassin’s head into the oak paneling. A picture frame fell off its hook from the impact. The assassin fell unconscious from the dented wall as Shin-ju twirled lightly in mid-air recoil and landed on the ground.

The third assassin made a run for the door. Immediately Shin-ju flew over him and kicked the door shut. Shin-ju stood in front of the door, a look of warning in his eyes.

Cursing, the assassin raised his sword. He was about to lunge when he felt a presence behind him.

”Don’t even think about it,” Mikieru calmly warned.

The assassin frantically twirled and swung his Katana, aimed at Mikieru’s neck. Effortlessly, Mikieru slapped the assassin’s wrist, knocking the sword out of his hands. Recovering, the assassin back-slid, drew out a knife, and flung it at the Cleric. With the same nonchalance, Mikieru caught the knife by its handle, the blade a mere inches from his face, and threw it aside.

At that point the assassin squatted low and sprinted towards Mikieru. The Cleric stood motionless, watching his opponent’s movements as the opponent shifted his position repeatedly, right and left, trying to catch Mikieru off-guard. When the assassin came within striking range, he feigned a punch at Mikieru’s face. The Cleric didn't flinch.

Twisting, the assassin skidded around Mikieru and threw a lethal back-fist aimed at the back of his head. Immediately, Mikieru turned and lashed out his arm, simultaneously blocking the back-fist and slamming an elbow into the assassin’s nose. The assassin flew backwards and crashed through the glass window, falling onto the street three storeys below them. Mikieru straightened and wiped blood from his elbow.

Shin-ju stared at Mikieru in amazement. It was almost as though the Cleric could see through the assassin’s movements.

After a moment of silence, the room’s closet door slowly creaked open and Jared poked his head out. The Merchant stared at disbelief at the assassin hanging from the ceiling, the broken window, and the other assassin lying unconscious against the dented wall.

“Is… is it over?” Jared asked fearfully.

Mikieru held up a gloved hand, motioning for silence. “Ssh,” he whispered. “There were four of them.”

Shin-ju saw Jared mouth the word “What?” without a sound.

Mikieru walked over to the assassin hanging from the ceiling. He gripped one ankle and pulled down. The assassin fell onto the ground in a heap.

Shin-ju and Jared walked over as Mikieru wordlessly pulled the mask off the assassin.

”What the hell…?” Jared spat.

“One of your ‘escorts,’ Jared,” Mikieru muttered grimly.

Shocked, Shin-ju jumped to the side of the assassin he had knocked out. He pulled the mask off and saw what he expected to see.

”Our own escorts… tried to kill us?” Shin-ju muttered, incredulous.

The three friends moved towards the window. In the street below them, the third assassin’s body lay on the ground, with a Peco-rider standing over it. Just then the rider raised his face to the three.

It was the fourth escort.

Cursing, the Payon Knight turned the Peco around and sprinted up the street, out of sight.

• • •

To be continued

[Mikey]

An hour later, Shin-ju sat at the Inn’s café alone. He watched through the windows as Mikieru gave his statement to a female Constabulary Prefect while her Constables escorted the assassins and their attending paramedics to the hospital.

Jared was apologizing profusely to the agitated Innkeeper. Together, the two men had assessed the damage done to the room and came up with a sum. The disagreement arose when Jared solicited to settle the payments with Yellow Potion.

Shin-ju sullenly returned the suspicious looks thrown in his direction by the Constables, paramedics, and Innkeeper. He turned his eyes away from the scene when he got tired of the stares.

What in the world is happening? Shin-ju thought, his untouched cup of coffee growing cold. Who were those men? If the Taishou didn’t send them, who did?

Shin-ju kept himself from wondering whether the Taishou betrayed them. If the great warrior did, then Akira and Yoriko would be in danger this very moment…

Jared walked up to Shin-ju, apparently after reaching an agreement with the Innkeeper. “Hey, big guy,” he greeted with a shaky voice, taking a seat across the table. “You gonna take that coffee?”

Shin-ju shook his head drearily, avoiding Jared’s eyes.

“Thanks,” Jared said, scooping the cup to his lips and gulping down the warm liquid with reckless disregard. Shin-ju instinctively raised a hand to try to stop the Merchant from scalding himself.

“Don’t worry about me!” the Merchant laughed miserably, setting the empty cup down loudly on the table. “I’m just hoping some coffee’d wake me up from this nightmare!”

“Wake up, then,” Mikieru said, approaching the table. “I guess I should have told the two of you before, but your escorts were Old Occultists in disguise.”

Jared and Shin-ju glanced up as Mikieru threw a bloody black bandana onto the table.

“In disguise?” Jared asked stupidly.

“Yes.”

“And you knew this all along? How?”

“I felt something was strange this morning, before we left Payon,” the Cleric explained quietly. “I took a look at your escorts and noticed something off.”

“Really?” Jared muttered. “What?”

“Their Katanas,” Mikieru answered, not taking a seat. “They were all slung on their left hips, even when two of the escorts were left-handed. Besides that, three of the escorts were wearing latex masks-only one of them, the one that got away, was a true Orient. The other three were Northfolk… Occultists.”

Jared and Shin-ju didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Er…” Jared began. “How’d you know all that?”

Mikieru smiled a bit. “Suffice it to say that I see things others don’t,” he said, taking a seat while tapping his forehead above his green Elf-eye. Shin-ju saw this and wondered what he meant.

“Still!” the Merchant pressed. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner, Mike? Why’d you have to wait ‘til we reached Prontera?”

“I did not think it was wise to let your escorts know that I was on to them. I was waiting until I could catch them red-handed, you might say. But more importantly, we could not stay in Payon. Knowing that the Occultists have tracked you down there, I had to take you away from there as soon as I could. I did not allow our party to stop on the way to Prontera-that would have given your escorts an opportunity to kill you.”

Jared felt a cold chill crawl up his neck while Mikieru turned to look for a waitress.

“Excuse me, miss?” Mikieru called casually. “Is the kitchen still open?”

“Yes, sir,” a sleepy waitress answered from behind the café counter.

“Steak and eggs, please,” the Cleric called, turning to Shin-ju. “How about you, Shin-ju?”

Shin-ju looked up with a start, surprised that Mikieru was suddenly talking to him for a change. “Er… I… s-same, I guess,” he stammered, causing Mikieru to turn back to the waitress with two fingers raised.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll have a pastrami sandwich,” Jared called, then anxiously added, “Aw, and coffee! Lots of it! Don’t hold back!”

• • •

While the three friends ate quietly, Shin-ju eyed the black bandana on the tableside. Between mouthfuls he watched as the firelight in the café cast shadows on the bandana, making it look as though it was moving, dancing, mocking him. Shin-ju thought it was testament to the bewilderment and disquiet he was feeling at this point.

“This isn’t right,” Shin-ju whispered.

Mikieru and Jared raised their eyes to the Nomad boy.

“N-nothing,” the boy stuttered when he realized he had been thinking aloud. “Sorry.”

“What is it, Shin-ju?” Jared asked.

Shin-ju sighed, putting down his utensils. “It’s just… you know… the third guy awhile ago… when he attacked Senpai, he moved left, right, and behind without much effort. His footwork… when I saw his attack, I had no doubt that it was a Komichi Na Ryuuki technique.”

“Komichi?” Jared spat.

“The Oriental swordfighting technique?” Mikieru intoned. “Are you certain?”

“Y-yeah… at least I think I am,” Shin-ju answered. “Mr. Akira taught me a few Komichi moves yesterday… I’ve noticed how different it is from the Chivalry style of fighting. The assassin’s footwork wasn’t Northern. I’m sure of it.”

There was silence at their table a moment before Jared turned to Mikieru.

“What do you think, Mike?” the Merchant asked.

“I did not notice that,” the Cleric noted. “It is probably a good thing that Shin-ju brought it up.”

Mikieru finished his steak and took a sip of water. “At this point, I can only think of two things-either the Taishou has betrayed us, which I doubt, or Garrione has operatives even in Payon. In any case, it is not safe for us here.”

Shin-ju stood up immediately. “We gotta go back to Payon!” the boy yelled. “Yoriko and her father might be in danger!”

Mikieru nonchalantly shook his head, still taking sips from his glass. “I believe that would be unwise,” he said calmly. “We leave a danger zone only to return to it? It does not make sense.”

“But Senpai!” Shin-ju pressed.

“I say we should let Jared decide, Shin-ju,” Mikieru said, turning to the Merchant. “After all, he is the Keeper of the Stone.”

Mikieru and Shin-ju looked at Jared. The Merchant closed his eyes-this was a difficult decision to make.

If he chose to go to Payon, he might be bringing the three of them right into a trap. At the same time, he knew that Shin-ju was right-Akira and his daughter Yoriko might be in grave danger.

If he chose to go to Al de Baran, he will undoubtedly be taking them into the veritable stronghold of Garrione and his Occultists-unsure whether the five hundred Sograt Garrison Knights would be there, and whether Napolde was still…

Napolde!

Jared’s eyes shot open. “We go to Al de Baran,” he said with finality.

“I agree,” Mikieru said, rising. “We move immediately.”

Shin-ju couldn’t believe it. Mikieru and Jared were leaving Yoriko and Akira alone? The mere thought disgusted him to no end, and the boy turned and angrily headed for the exit, leaving his dinner unfinished.

Jared and Mikieru watched as the Nomad boy left the café in a temper, leaving the exit door to slam shut on its own. The Merchant sighed heavily, shaking his head.

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” Jared said, disheartened.

The tall Cleric looked down at Jared for a moment. “It is not your fault, Jared,” he said, turning to walk towards the exit. “I will talk to him.”

Jared doleful eyes followed Mikieru as the Cleric walked towards the exit door. Then he turned to the empty seat beside him and took his backpack in his hands.

“Excuse me, sir…”

The Merchant looked up with a start. The waitress was at their table, the bill for their meal in her hands.

A red tint came over Jared’s face when he saw the bill. “Er, yes, of course… er…” he began, smiling stupidly. “That is, wouldja mind if we, well… settle the bill with Yellow Potion?”

A bead of sweat rolled down the back of the waitress’s head. This was particularly what she hated about Merchants.

• • •

Mikieru pushed through the café’s main door and stepped onto the covered patio.

It was dark outside, and a light rain was falling. He could see Prefects moving here and there, assessing the damage and taking field notes of the incident that night.

“Shin-ju,” Mikieru called, squinting to find the Nomad boy in the darkness.

There was no answer. The Cleric looked around the patio. He stepped onto the sidewalk. He looked up and down the street. Shin-ju was nowhere in sight.

“Shin-ju?” he called again, this time loudly, trying to be heard over the slapping of the rain on the pavement.

Mikieru scanned the surroundings again, his eyes moving from the patio to the street to the Peco stables. Too late, he had realized that there were only two of the large birds tied to the posts-one of their Pecos was missing.

The shocked Cleric spun towards the street again. “SHIN-JU!” he yelled, desperate to be heard.

• • •

Shin-ju had taken one of the Pecos and had begun riding at full speed back towards the South Gate. He was so sure that Yoriko and Akira were in trouble that he knowingly went against Mikieru’s wishes and left the group. Ignoring the pain in his stomach and the biting cold wind whipping at his face, he barreled down the near-empty Merchant’s Alley and almost ran over the unsuspecting Gate Sentries on his way out of Prontera Fort City.

• • •

“…But I told them at the front desk my assets were liquid!” Jared insisted, waving a vial of Yellow Potion in front of the incredulous waitress.

“Jared, we have to go.” Mikieru ordered, re-entering the café. “Hurry.”

“Mike?” the Merchant asked, surprised at the Cleric’s tone. “What’s wrong? Where’s Shin-ju?”

“He left,” Mikieru answered, pushing a wad of money towards the waitress. “He took one of the Pecos with him. I believe he is heading back to Payon.”

“Are you serious?” Jared yelped, shoving the Yellow Potion into his pocket as he followed the Cleric out of the Inn. “What in the world is he thinking?”

“He is undoubtedly upset about our decision to go to Al de Baran, but I wish he understood the stakes here,” Mikieru said, a hint of anger in his voice. “If we are to reach a conclusion to this madness, the three of us have to stick together! I cannot promise to defend you and your Stone on my own!”

“So where are we going, then?” Jared said, untying his Peco from the Stable post. “Are we going back to Payon?”

Mikieru mounted his Peco. “No,” he answered. “Truth be told, I am not certain he is headed for Payon, but the circumstances suggest this. For the two of us, we have no other choice but to keep to our plan.”

“Then Al de Baran it is,” Jared sighed.

“Yes,” the Cleric admitted. “But I have to make a stop somewhere first.”

“Where?”

“My apartment,” Mikieru answered as they rode up Merchant’s Alley. “In Adobe Hill.”

• • •

Half an hour later, Mikieru and Jared walked up the steps to the Cleric’s second-floor apartment in the Adobe Hill District. As they approached the apartment’s door, Jared noted the dilapidated floorboards and wall paint on the hallway. The scent of something dead-probably a rodent-permeated the floor, and an expression of disgust escaped the Merchant’s lips.

“I can’t believe this is all your salary could afford, Mike,” Jared commented. “Keeping the peace eight hours a day only to come home to a dump like this. It isn’t right.”

Mikieru shrugged as he turned the key in the rusty doorknob. “Look at the bright side,” the Cleric answered. “It makes it easy to keep my vow of poverty.”

Jared laughed a bit as they entered Mikieru’s apartment. The Cleric’s pad was small studio-type, with a kitchen counter and a bathroom on the far end. A small study table and lateral file sat near the door, and a small table sat beside a sofa-bed against the right wall. All-in-all, it was a tidy-enough place to call home, if not a little too modest for the Merchant’s tastes.

Jared took a seat at the sofa-bed while Mikieru took off his traveling cloak and headed towards the closet. The Merchant watched as the Cleric shuffled through his clothes on the hanger rack, drawing out a suit of chain-mail armor and his long black Cleric’s coat.

The Merchant swallowed as Mikieru wore the armor under his coat. As the Cleric turned back to the closet, Jared heard him sigh in an almost regretful manner.

“I had hoped that I would never see the day that I would have to use this again…” Mikieru intoned, reaching into the closet.

A gasp died in Jared’s throat as he watched Mikieru draw out a six-foot long metal quarterstaff that was weighed heavily on both ends. It looked like two fierce-looking Iron Maces fused together at the bases of their shafts. Jared had never seen such a weapon before-it was magnificent.

“The Redeemer, Jared,” Mikieru said, answering Jared’s unasked question. “A special quarterstaff-mace made for me by the Holy Silversmiths of Juno. It is made of cast iron and silver, and it is primarily a weapon against Demons and the Undead… though its primary use does not preclude its efficiency against ordinary opponents such as Humans.”

“I, uh… I’m sure,” Jared muttered, still mesmerized by the size and appearance of the weapon.

“I took this with me when I served in the army during the Frontier War,” the Cleric continued, strapping the weapon to the back of his coat with leather latches. “I thought it would serve me well in my duties… only to wish I would never use it again after the War. I only hope that… as we move into Al de Baran, it will live up to its name… for your sake and my own.”

• • •

She feebly pulled at the chains at her hands, her tender fingertips digging into the shackles in a vain attempt to get free.

She had forgotten how long she had been fettered like this. She vaguely remembered counting the days and nights that passed by watching the hiding and surfacing of the large rats festering her dark dungeon cell. She had stopped counting after she reached ten days-that was three or four nights ago.

The girl smiled the moment she decided not to keep track of the days anymore. She knew that he wouldn’t be coming back for her, and that was good. She had asked him, very emotionally in fact, not to come back to Al de Baran even if her own life was in danger-and he apparently honored her wishes.

An unexpected clang run through her cell, sending the rats scampering back into their hiding places. The girl wearily looked up from the ground, trying to see what was going on beyond the rusty steel bars. She watched as her two masked guards push her door open and step aside, revealing a huge hulking form between them.

A large man walked in, donned in menacing full-plate mail, gauntlets, and greaves. A claymore was strapped to the plated belt around his waist. His eyes were uncovered, and she held his stare calmly as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Get up, Napolde,” the man ordered quietly. “It is an important day for the both of us.”

The Elf remained on the floor, turning her head away.

“I have news for you.”

“For what purpose do you seek power, Lord Garrione?” the girl asked quietly.

“Get up.”

“You will gain power for the sake of what?”

“Napolde.”

“What will power bestow upon you if you lose your own soul?”

The Knight decided not to get into this discussion again. Turning to the guards, he ordered them to pick her up off the floor and bring her to him upstairs.

• • •

“You need not worry about me, Napolde,” Garrione explained as the he and Napolde climbed the rickety wooden stairs towards the top of the drafty Clock Tower stairwell. “I have my reasons for seeking power, just as you have your reasons for hiding the Stone from me.”

“Reasons are well,” Napolde commented in her tranquil Elven tone. “The question lies upon the knowledge whether or not your series of reasons has a destination, and whether or not you know what that destination is.”

“Point taken. You have told me that on more than one occasion.”

“It bears repeating, Milord. For eight centuries, the Goldraiders and their Elven Druid friends have sought the answer as to what this destination was-or rather, what it should be.”

“The end-in-itself,” Garrione noted quietly.

“Yes.”

“And after eight centuries of searching, those fools never found the answer.”

Napolde pulled her hands apart, making the chains on her wrists cling. “Who is to say that they have not?”

Garrione sighed as they stepped onto a landing before another flight of stairs. “I am not saying they did not find the answer, my dear. I am only saying that once they found their answer, whatever it might have been, they realized that their answer served no purpose. Tell me then, Napolde, what does the end-in-itself serve? We search all our lives to find this end-in-itself, in order to do what?”

“Nothing, Milord.”

“Precisely. And by that, it means that the ultimate end-in-itself is ultimately useless.”

“No, Milord. The end-in-itself may serve no consequent purpose, yet it serves to end the cycle of reasons. It is meant to be the destination of all our actions. It is meant to end what would otherwise have been endless.”

The two reached the topmost level of the Clock Tower, where Garrione looked down on the Elf and asked her a question.

“And why would I want to end the endless?”

Napolde held the large Knight’s stare. “You keep me as a hostage so that Jared will be coaxed out of hiding. You coax Jared to come out of hiding so that he might surrender the Stone to you. You make him surrender the Stone in order to gain power. You want this power to… what? And what? And then what? And so on. What is the end to all this, Garrione? Does an end-in-itself even exist in your plans? Do you truly wish to continue this thread of intentions for all your life, only to realize on the day of your death that all your actions were for naught?”

Garrione forgave himself an evil smirk, rubbing his beard gleefully at the Elf’s elucidations.

“Jared will not return,” the Elf finished, unmoving. “He will never give you the Stone.”

“That is where you are mistaken, dear Napolde,” Garrione laughed, turning to walk towards a closed double-door that led to the Clock Tower’s roof balcony. “Jared is already on his way here.”

Napolde froze. “N-no,” she intoned. “That cannot be. I told him…”

“Perhaps you haven’t been around Humans long enough, my dear,” the Knight stated, pushing open the double doors and letting a flood of overcast sunlight into the Clock Tower stairwell. “We have reasons that reason itself cannot fathom.”

The Elf looked on, shocked to no end, at what she saw beyond the Clock Tower balcony. Al de Baran was in chaos. Houses were burning, sending black columns of smoke into the gray morning sky. Bandana-wearing men were raiding the houses and buildings, looting and pillaging, while others took men, women, and children out of their homes and bound them like criminals. Al de Baran’s undermanned Chivalry was doing all it can to suppress the sudden uprising, but they were overmatched by the seemingly endless number of Occultists.

“Jared is on his way here,” Garrione repeated, his gauntleted hands on the balcony railing. “He apparently thinks you are worth the risk to rescue. And if he doesn’t show up, I will find him… and kill him… myself.”

Napolde could not take her green eyes off the scene in front of her. Garrione was standing in front of her, looking evilly down at the anarchy prevailing over the Machine City. All of a sudden, the hope she felt four nights ago was dispelled, replaced by a deep foreboding of the days that would follow after this.

• • •

End of Chapter Seven

[Mikey]

Chapter Eight
The Knight-Mage

Shin-ju bit back the urge to yawn as he barreled down the familiar forest road towards the Payon Highlands. The sun was now peeking through the forest canopy, painting the surrounding glades into a hue that threatened to overcome the boy’s sense of urgency with the fatigue he was trying to hide.

The boy never looked back at Prontera since he broke away from Mikieru’s party the previous night. He knew that the Cleric would bend his ear over his rash actions when they met again, but at the same time he also knew that there might not be a next time if his fears were proven true today.

Yoriko and Akira were in danger.

The mere thought of it pushed the boy to forget the fatigue of a sleepless night and ride on through.

• • •

Shin-ju’s ears picked up an inapt whistle up ahead. Instinctively, the boy yanked the Peco reins to one side and ducked his head in time to avoid being impaled by a crossbow bolt aimed between his eyes.

The large bird squawked loudly as it tumbled into the ground, throwing the boy off its saddle. Shin-ju grunted as he hit the ground, rolling twice before pushing himself onto his feet, eyes scanning the surroundings for the unexpected attacker.

There was nothing save for the sound of the wind blowing through the trees and the warbling of birds in the forest. Shin-ju could not see his attacker—the underbrush was too thick in the area.

The boy kept looking—he knew that the attacker would take the opportunity to fire another bolt at him. Shin-ju sighed and closed his eyes, focusing all his consciousness on his sense of hearing.

Another whistle sounded from his side.

Immediately, Shin-ju leaped into the air, avoiding the bolt by inches. Opening his eyes, he scanned the brush from where the bolt was fired—and saw a dark figure hidden between two trees.

“There!” the boy yelled, landing on the ground and sprinting towards the bowman.

Surprisingly, the bowman did not turn to run. He did not even reload his crossbow. Instead, the bowman rose, threw his crossbow aside, and drew out a Katana.

Shin-ju skidded to a stop, seeing the menacing Oriental blade glimmering in the sunlight. He waited as his assailant emerged from the shadows, the Katana in one hand.

“You?” Shin-ju muttered, recognizing the man. It was their fourth escort.

The slant-eyed man sniffed quietly. “Kobe Nobujiro,” he introduced himself. “Komichi Na Ryuuki.”

Shin-ju took a moment to gather himself. “What are you doing here?” he demanded to know. “I was assuming you were returning to Al de Baran and your leader.”

“Hmph,” Nobujiro snorted. “My leader? You truly believe I, a Payon Knight, would be in the service of Garrione?”

“Explain yourself then,” Shin-ju challenged.

“Oh, I shall… once you explain to me why the Kitsune sent you this way.”

Shin-ju shook his head. “He did not send me. I am here of my own option.”

“Is that so?”

“Now tell me who you’re working for.”

“The dead need no elucidation,” Nobujiro mocked, raising his Katana. “Suffice it to say that I was ordered to kill all three of you last night, but it seems my master will have to settle for only one.”

Shin-ju clenched his fists and prepared to defend himself. He was right—this man was taking orders from someone in Payon. Yoriko and her father were at risk.

“Name yourself,” Nobujiro ordered, invoking the Oriental custom of introducing oneself before engaging in combat.

Shin-ju raised his fists. “The dead do not elucidate,” he answered coldly. “Suffice it to say that if you do not step aside, I will be your worst nightmare!”

At that, the two assumed low fighting stances and yelled. Rocks, dirt, and grass flew as they pushed off the ground and charged towards each other.

• • •

“Mike, look at that,” Jared said, pointing at the mountain pass below them.

Mikieru rode over to the Merchant’s side and peered over the ridge’s edge. A hundred feet below them, the Cleric saw several people in tattered traveling clothes, walking in the direction of Prontera. There were no wagons—the men were carrying bags and baskets and the women were carrying their children. Mikieru thought they looked as though they had packed what they could carry and fled their homes overnight.

“Refugees?” Mikieru ventured.

“Just what I was thinking,” Jared agreed, pointing north. “I was wondering what that dark haze in the distance was. Now I’m pretty sure it’s smoke.”

The Cleric set his eyes northward, seeing the tiny gray haze rising in the horizon.

“Al de Baran’s on fire,” the Merchant said, “and those people are from the villages surrounding the Machine City. Looks like our worst fears have come true.”

“The anarchy began last night,” Mikieru observed grimly, gripping the reins of his Peco. “Though we won’t know to what extent until we reach the Machine City itself. What do you want to do now, Jared?”

The Merchant looked into the sky again, noting the cold weather and chilly winds that prevailed over the Mjolnir Mountain Range. He and Mikieru had set out of Prontera several hours earlier, choosing to take the rougher route over the rugged Mjolnir foothills instead of going through the mountain pass. The choice had cost them a few hours of traveling time, but it gave them an idea of what they were about to face if they continued on their trek to Al de Baran.

“Um… we, uh… we go down?” Jared asked, indirectly soliciting Mikieru’s opinion. “Meet the refugees, get information, then decide what to do next?”

Mikieru nodded. “Very well.”

• • •

Mikieru and Jared learned that the situation was worse than they had initially feared. The refugees told them of how Occultists, seemingly in the thousands, suddenly emerged from Al de Baran’s neglected sewers before dawn and engaged in an orgy of pillage, kidnapping, and murder. None of Al de Baran’s few districts was spared. Most of the Constabulary forces were killed, and the Stewards of the Machine City were trapped in their halls. Many rich citizens and Merchants were taken prisoner. Only those living in the nearby villages were able to escape the carnage, since the Occultists concentrated their dawn attack on Chivalry and Government targets inside Al de Baran.

Some of the refugees apparently recognized Mikieru, and begged him to stay with them while they rested. The Cleric had agreed, knowing that Jared also needed to get some sleep. The refugees prepared a tent for their two protectors while they stopped at a carved-out alcove in the mountain pass.

While Jared dozed off in their tent, Mikieru roamed the campsite, gathering information from the villagers and administering healing services where needed. All the while, he noted the familiarity of the surroundings, especially the color of the rock faces and the scent of the clay under his feet. It reminded him of his first trek to the Mjolnir Mountain Range, over ten years ago, when he was assigned as the Supply Officer in a search-and-rescue mission in the Mjolnir Coal Mines.

Even in his Acolytehood, Mikieru knew that the Clerics’ work lay on the field. Priests were seen as the core elite of God’s forces on earth, carrying out His will and standing up for His name and the name of all that was holy and good. Priests pledged their souls to God, and they were in turn blessed with unique skills and talents to use in fighting for good and banishing evil from Midgard. Priests were divided into two major groups—Presbyters, or the Pious, who oversaw the administrative, internal, and civil welfare-related matters of the Church and its faithful, and the Clerics, also known as the Brave. The Clerics’ duties centered on defending the Church and its faithful from external, evil threats in Midgard—both Human and otherwise…

“Everything started about an hour before dawn,” a woman named Ana told Mikieru while trying to hush a baby in her arms. “There was no warning. We awoke to screams and fires breaking out within the city walls. It wasn’t long before some of the Occultists spilled from Al de Baran and began heading towards our villages.”

“You are sure they were Occultists?” Mikieru asked.

“Yes, Brother. There was no mistaking the black bandanas on all of them. They were merciless—they hacked down all who stood in their way. I was… fortunate… to have escaped with Dell, here.”

Mikieru eyed the squirming bundle in the woman’s arms, judging the baby to be female and at least twelve months old.

“Do you have any other family members with you?” the Cleric inquired.

“No… I lived with my husband, though…”

“And where is he now?”

“He… he tried to defend the village with the other men while the aged, women and children fled… I haven’t… seen him… since…”

Ana began weeping, and Mikieru immediately laid a gloved hand on her shoulder.

“Ssh,” the Cleric soothed. “Worry not. What is his name?”

“Gerrold, sire,” Ana answered between sobs.

“Very well. When my companion and I reach Al de Baran, I will keep my eyes open for anyone who answers to that name.”

• • •

“Murderer!”

Mikieru faced the accusation that was directed at him.

”Murderer!” a shepherd man from the camp yelled, pointing at Mikieru. “You are the Kitsune! You are in league with Garrione and his Occultists! How dare you show yourself in our midst!”

The Cleric opened his mouth to speak, but Ana stepped in front of him in defense. ”Ranche! Do not speak of him as such! Did you not hear him? He is here to protect us! He is here to liberate Al de Baran!”

“And you trust him?” Ranche bellowed. “After what his colleague has done to the Machine City? Drive him away, I say! He will not do anything but bring even more grief upon our heads!”

• • •

“ENOUGH!”

Ana and Ranche immediately stopped when a graying man stepped in front of Mikieru. His clothes were in slightly better condition than the attires of the villagers, and he carried himself in a manner much more civil—the Cleric guessed the man to be the village leader.

“He has offered to help us,” the elder said.

“He killed innocent Nomad children!”

The elder turned quietly to Mikieru, ignoring Ranche’s outburst. “Forgive him, Brother,” he whispered. “But please be assured he does not speak for the rest of the villagers. Not all of us are as distrustful.”

Mikieru nodded, but did not answer.

“My name is Gorban, and I am the elder of our village,” the old man said, placing a withered hand on Mikieru’s sleeve. “Please, come with me to my tent… there is much I would like to ask you.”

• • •

To be continued

[Mikey]

Mikieru squatted on the ground in Gorban’s tent, his eyes aimlessly following the ants crawling on the clay soil. He didn’t say a word while the village elder poured a glass of water for him. The Cleric couldn’t help but think of what Ranche called him only a few moments ago.

“Murderer!”

“Drive him away, I say!”

“He killed innocent Nomad children!”

“Here,” Gorban said, offering a glass of water to Mikieru. The Cleric, mouth closed, took the glass in his hands and nodded his thanks.

“You are no doubt bothered by Ranche’s outburst, and for that I am sorry,” the village elder drawled, taking a seat on a large rock. “His father was one of the soldiers murdered during Garrione’s raid on the Chivalry desert camp two years ago. He has had in him a great hatred for Garrione and the mutinous officers since then… but I would believe you if you told me you had nothing to do with that mutiny…”

“I do,” Mikieru answered.

“I… I beg your pardon?”

“I do take responsibility for that raid. I did not stop Garrione when I had the chance.”

Mikieru turned away, the glass of water still in his hands.

“A few nights before they attacked, Garrione informed me of their plans… he asked me to join them and exact justice for the wrong our superiors had done to us. I refused, and I warned him that I would let the authorities know of their plans if he did not back down from his motives. He assured me that he changed his mind and would do no such thing… and I believed him.”

Gorban sniffed in incredulity. “You had no fault in that, Brother.”

“Do you believe in Fate, Master Gorban?”

“Fate…?”

Mikieru nodded, still not looking up at the village elder.

”This is what I believe,” the Cleric intoned. “Our lives… our world… is shaped by choice. But it goes beyond that. The blame falls not only upon the choices we make, but also upon the choices we do not make.”

“And therefore, you believe Garrione’s treachery is your own fault… merely because you did not stop him?”

Mikieru turned to look at the swirling water in the glass in his hands. “Therefore I believe I must do what I can do make up for my sins… both for the things I have failed to do… and for the things that I have done.”

Gorban frowned, mystified by Mikieru’s quiet confession. He understood the Cleric’s guilt of failing to stop Garrione two years ago, and yet Mikieru also mentioned that he had to make up for the things that he had done…

The village elder was about to ask Mikieru what he meant about this when a shout was heard from outside the tent.

“Riders! Heading this way! The camp is under attack!”

Instinctively, the old man turned towards the sound of the yelling. Then he turned back to Mikieru—only to realize that the Cleric had made a hasty exit from the tent, leaving behind an empty glass on the spot where he sat.

• • •

Shin-ju and Nobujiro skidded backwards, away from each other, after a violent clash. The boy winced, noticing a flesh wound on his forearm, while Nobujiro rubbed a swollen cheek where Shin-ju was able to land a palm strike during the exchange.

“You fight well, for an unarmed youth,” Nobujiro commended, spitting. “I could understand how my three flunkies failed their mission last night.”

Shin-ju eyed the Payon Knight warily while hastily bandaging his wound with a handkerchief. Nobujiro himself was a skilled fighter—his fighting style was completely different from the ones the Occultists used. There was no doubt about it—Nobujiro was schooled in Komichi Na Ryuuki.

“You’re not one of the Occultists,” Shin-ju observed.

”Of course not. Were you not listening? I would not be caught dead serving Garrione.”

“Tell me who you serve!”

“Someone much more powerful, little Nomad… one whose plans will be fulfilled whether or not you stand in our way.”

Shin-ju clenched his fists. “I don’t care about your plans,” he announced. “I only want to see to the safety of two of my friends in Payon. Step aside.”

“The Yamakunos, I presume.”

Shin-ju’s eyes widened. ”You know them?” he yelled.

“Shousa Akira and his Elf-witch daughter Yoriko… I make it a point to know all those to be involved in my master’s plans.”

“Where are they? What have you done to them? I swear, if you’ve touched a hair on their heads…”

“You will do what?” Nobujiro challenged. “You will kill me? You will kill my master? You have no power, insignificant little one. The only thing you need to realize is that it is too late for you and your friends. My master’s plans are already in motion. It is only a matter of time before you, me, and all of Midgard will see the power and glory that is my master’s heritage.”

Shin-ju’s head swam, but his anger rose with every defiant sentence that came out of Nobujiro’s mouth. The boy closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them again with a fury as a bluish-white aura materialized around his body, wafting upwards into the air like a flame.

“Step… aside.” Shin-ju gave his final warning.

Nobujiro smirked. He had been informed of the boy’s unusual knowledge of the Holy Arts and was prepared to meet Shin-ju’s Blessing with his own self-enhancement trance spell.

The Payon Knight shifted one foot behind him and raised his Katana. Shin-ju gaped as he watched Nobujiro’s body become enveloped by a yellow self-enhancement aura.

“Two-hand Quicken,” Nobujiro mocked.

In another moment, Shin-ju and Nobujiro would lunge forward and clash again in another violent exchange of blows.

• • •

Mikieru’s form, one hand on the shaft of the Redeemer and the other drawing circles in the air in a gesture to get moving, gave the villagers a sort of calming relief while the Cleric walked past them to meet the riders. He had heard the warnings as well, and now he stood at the mouth of the mountain pass between their approaching attackers and the villagers he had agreed to defend.

Jared poked his head out of his tent. He lost his sense of fatigue as soon as he saw the villagers frantically breaking camp. Something was wrong.

“I warned you!” Ranche yelled at the top of his lungs. “He was nothing but bad luck!”

Ana was too frightened to argue. She carried a bawling Dell in her arms and ran towards the rear of the camp with the other women and children.

Gorban and the able-bodied men in the group picked up spades, picks, clubs—anything that resembled a weapon—and moved towards the riders in a desperate attempt to protect the villagers, but they stopped from moving any further when Mikieru extended a gloved hand behind him, silently telling them to stay back.

Mikieru fixed his gaze at the approaching cloud of dust in the mountain pass. A quick estimate gave him the idea that there were well over one hundred riders heading his way—expectedly, all of them wearing black bandanas. What made Mikieru feel ill were the banners of Al de Baran lifted alongside the feared standards of the Occultists.

“Occultists,” Jared whispered fearfully, instinctively patting his pockets for the Stone.

The village held its breath as the Occultists came closer to Mikieru. Then, abruptly, the riders stopped approximately thirty meters from the Cleric. It seemed as though they recognized him.

Mikieru knew that his identity was known to them. It was no surprise to him, therefore, when the riders parted to form a path at their middle, allowing a large armored man on a powerful armored Peco to approach.

The man was almost seven feet tall and easily weight three hundred pounds without the full-plate armor that encased his frame from the neck down. The man reached up to his chin and took the edge of his visor in his fingers, lifting it to reveal his familiar face to Mikieru.

The Cleric was the first to speak. “It had to come to this.”

“We know each other well, Kitsune,” Garrione announced. “I knew you would be here.”

“No words need to be spoken between us, Garrione. I will not leave you to harm these villagers.”

“Expectedly,” the huge Knight laughed. “You and your proverbs. A burnt child fears the flame. Your conscience is crippled so much after killing innocent Nomads that you are blinded by the fact that it was not your fault, and now you so desperately try to protect these villagers to atone for your sins. Ironic as it might be, Kitsune, I would still offer you… a Priest… one last chance to wake up to the truth.”

“Truth?” Mikieru asked. “I see no truth in vengeance, Garrione.”

“This is not vengeance, Kitsune. This is…”

“Justice,” the two old allies said together.

Garrione smirked. “So you do see the point in my actions.”

“No, I do not. You claim to stand for justice, Garrione, but you are merely using our dishonor as an excuse to gain power.”

The Knight frowned, clearly unamused by Mikieru’s accusation. He sighed before giving his final challenge.

“I will not stand and be insulted, Kitsune,” he said coldly as the soldiers around him began to dismount and draw their weapons. “You force me to jump to the point of my visit.”

Garrione shot a finger into Mikieru’s direction.

“Hand over Wycrow.”

Back in the crowd, Jared gasped when he heard this.

“No,” Mikieru said. “I will not.”

“Then I shall give you the honor of facing the consequences of your actions long past, Kitsune,” Garrione taunted, the other Occultists grouping into a staggered semicircle around the Cleric. “I know this is not the judgment you are looking for, but I’m sure you’ll agree with me when I say it is a righteous verdict for you.”

The Cleric looked at the Occultists surrounding him, vaguely wondering why a part of him agreed with Garrione’s statement. It was all he could do to raise his hands to the Redeemer strapped to his back and set his feet apart in half-hearted preparation to defend himself.

“My judgment is in God’s hands,” Mikieru finished, focusing his eyesight on the one hundred-strong Occultists. “Do as you must, Garrione, but you will not take Jared or these villagers today. I will not allow it.”

• • •

To be continued

[Mikey]

Nobujiro flew forward, propelled by his sword-enhancement spell, unleashing several lightning-fast slashes and thrusts. Wide-eyed, Shin-ju quickly moved backwards, doing his best to avoid the Payon Knight’s speedy attacks.

Shin-ju was able to find an opening and thrust his leg forward in a low kick. The desperation kick hit Nobujiro in his armored midsection, and his attack was halted. Shin-ju flew backwards and fell on one knee. His clothes were torn in some places and his arms had many small nicks and cuts. He had avoided being hit directly by any of Nobujiro's attacks, but he wasn’t fast enough to evade the blade completely--even with Blessing.

Impossible! Shin-ju thought desperately. He’s so much faster!

Nobujiro immediately resumed his unstoppable attack. Shin-ju raised his Blessing spell to the limits of its capabilities, but still he wasn’t able to achieve a speed faster than Nobujiro’s. The Nomad boy did all he could to avoid being hit directly by the Payon Knight’s Katana.

Deciding he couldn't be on the defensive side for long, Shin-ju decided to risk a counter attack. As he saw a backhand slash coming, he lashed his forearm forward. The forearm stopped the sword, its blade embedding itself into Shin-ju's leather arm-guard. Nobujiro paused, distracted by Shin-ju's risky block.

Shin-ju grimaced in pain. Nobujiro's sword had cut through the hard leather and had wounded his forearm. Instinctively, Shin-ju planted his feet on the ground and threw a roundhouse kick. The kick caught Nobujiro in the side of the face, and he turned away in recoil.

As Nobujiro turned his back on Shin-ju, he lashed out his foot in an unexpected back kick. His foot landed on Shin-ju’s unprotected midsection, and the boy slid backwards.

Shin-ju fell on one knee, coughing. Nobujiro had hit him in the solar plexus, knocking the air out of him and, worse, dissipating his Blessing spell. The Nomad boy watched in horror as the bluish-white glow left his hands.

Shin-ju spat silently. Nobujiro knew the only way to counter the Blessing trance—by scoring a clean hit on the caster’s midsection. The Nomad boy looked up as the Payon Knight prepared to unleash another assault with his Katana.

The boy shook his head dismally. He was tired. He knew if he cast Blessing one more time, he would not last through the day. He was still too weak.

Shin-ju watched as Nobujiro lunged towards him, Katana raised, eyes showing murderous intent to finish the fight there and then.

• • •

The Occultists raised their weapons and lunged at the isolated Cleric.

The first Occultist ran towards Mikieru with a long sword poised to deliver a thrust. Discreetly, Mikieru raised one his hands near his chin, and—when the thrust came—threw his other hand outward, hacking the Occultist’s arms aside and slamming an elbow between the Occultist’s eyes. The first Occultist fell backwards, blood flowing profusely from his nose.

Almost instantly, another thrust came, this time from a spearman. In one motion, Mikieru twisted his large frame, grabbing the spear with one hand and pulling the Occultist’s head forward. The Occultist lost his balance, almost falling forward while the Cleric steamrolled him in a circle.

With his hands occupied with one Occultist, another one jumped towards Mikieru with an axe raised high over his head. As he descended, Mikieru used his circular momentum to throw his leg backward in a turning back kick, landing his heel squarely in the falling Occultist’s midsection. As the stricken Occultist fell backward, his axe carving a small niche in the soil at Mikieru’s feet, the Cleric abruptly reversed the direction of his motion and flung the helpless Occultist in his hands into a small group of his peers approaching from the front.

While several of the Occultists fell in a heap in front of him, Mikieru sensed several others behind him with their weapons raised. Immediately Mikieru fell to one knee, grasping the end of the Redeemer with one hand and placing the elbow of his other hand under the other end. When the overhead weapon smashes came, Mikieru raised his arms over his head, unlatching the Redeemer from his coat and blocking four simultaneous weapon strikes with the shaft of the Long Mace. The Occultists looked on in disbelief.

The Cleric jumped to his feet, throwing the four Occultists backward. In one fluid motion, Mikieru delivered a Redeemer thrust, a back kick, a Redeemer slash, and another Redeemer thrust—all meeting their mark. The Cleric raised the menacing long mace up in the air and twirled it in his hands as if it was as light as a wooden quarterstaff. Then he stopped, the Redeemer wedged under one arm and the other raised forward in a receiving gesture.

• • •

Garrione frowned when he saw his soldiers cautiously hold their attacks, even when they had the Cleric surrounded. The Knight dismounted his Peco and took a few steps toward the battle, shouting the words:

“He resists! He maintains that we will not exact the justice we rightfully deserve! He will learn!”

Those words were enough to stir enough hatred in the Occultists for them to rise into an uncontrollable fury, lunging with reckless abandon at the isolated Cleric.

• • •

Jared and the villagers watched in awe as Mikieru held his ground, swinging the Redeemer in circles and smashing it relentlessly at the attacking Occultists. From a chaotic center, bodies of stricken Occultists came flying out on occasion, victim of a vicious Redeemer blow—but there were too many of them for the Cleric to handle alone.

• • •

Mikieru soon sensed that the dozens of berserker Occultists would eventually overpower him. He waited until the last fleeting moment, when he looked and saw that he would not be able to counter all the incoming attacks at once, before he fell to one knee and raised one hand in a praying gesture.

The Occultists divulged at the Cleric from above and all sides, covering the center of the battle with a shadow in that single moment. Mikieru opened his eyes at the last moment, catching an intense glimpse of Garrione—once his good comrade-in-arms—past the bodies that came at him from all directions.

“God give me strength,” Mikieru intoned in Latin.

• • •

In an instant the center of the battle exploded in a brilliant flash of bluish-white light, sending dozens of Occultists flailing outwards helplessly. Mikieru was in mid-air, high above the mountain pass, the bluish-white aura of the Blessing trance in effect. Menacingly, he drew the Redeemer back in the prelude of a vicious smash—aimed at Garrione, who stood at the far end of the mountain pass.

Garrione grinned, seeing Mikieru employ the powerful self-enhancement spell that he had seen several times before. Casually, while Mikieru descended towards him, Garrione unsheathed from his back a large sword—one that had a blade seven feet long and eight inches wide—and held it with two hands.

Mikieru’s eyes widened at the sight of the huge sword. To the best of his knowledge, Garrione used a claymore—this new sword, however, was much larger than any he had ever seen in his life.

Garrione spun on his feet twice, gathering momentum for a counter. At the exact moment, the Knight threw the blade in a rising arc, meeting Mikieru’s Redeemer smash with a resounding clang that echoed loudly up and down the mountain pass.

The Cleric stared in disbelief, his large frame still off the ground, while Garrione held him up with his sword. A glint of orange light flashed from the base of the Knight’s blade and moved along the surface until it consumed the metal entirely with a brilliant luminance—and a searing heat.

Garrione yelled, achieving the completion of his counter and swinging his sword outwards. Mikieru flew backwards, up to the side, the Redeemer still in his hands. As the Cleric flew towards the face of the mountain pass walls, he jabbed the long mace viciously at the rock, embedding one of its ends into a jagged cavity. Then, with his feet on the rock face and one hand grasping the shaft of the Redeemer, he looked down at Garrione from over fifty feet up in the air. The Cleric’s mouth tightened—he had not expected the Knight to be strong enough to counter the Blessing.

Worse still, he saw the flames emanating from Garrione’s sword and realized he was dealing with an elemental weapon—one that was strong enough to stand up to the Redeemer.

Below him, the villagers gasped in horror at the turn of events, and the Occultists gave a dark, rousing cheer for their ultimate leader.

• • •

End of Chapter Eight

[Mikey]

Chapter Nine
Set Into Motion This Dark Plan Is

“Ack!” Shin-ju rasped, falling backwards after Nobujiro’s Katana carved a neat wound on his shoulder. The boy instinctively leaped away from his attacker, grimacing as his hand nursed the cut.

Shin-ju landed on his feet, but fell to his knees soon after. He was at a loss—his raw speed and skill was no match for the calculated moves of a Komichi Na Ryuuki practitioner. Even Blessing failed to put him on an even footing with Nobujiro.

“You see, little one?” Nobujiro mocked, raising a hand in his explanation. “There is nothing you can do against this tide. You cannot escape it. None of us can.”

The boy froze, slowly lifting his eyes to his attacker.

“It has been fated. It matters not how hard you try to defeat me. Set into motion this dark plan is. Nature has willed it. Heaven has willed it. The Tao has willed it. Be wise, Nomad child. Submit to the powers that be and see the prophecy fulfilled in all its glory.”

Shin-ju’s mouth closed. He finally knew what Nobujiro was talking about.

“The One Who Waits,” Shin-ju spat. “You are working for the Taishou.”

Nobujiro laughed. “Do not delude yourself into thinking that I am to congratulate you on your realization. I well-nigh gave away my Master’s secret when I told you he was one who would not be stopped. Not that it matters. Your life is to end today, by the will of the One, and the lives of your pitiful friends to follow in due time.”

Shin-ju tried in vain to get to his feet when he saw Nobujiro grasp his Katana with two hands. The Payon Knight was going to kill him.

Desperately, Shin-ju’s eyes darted between Nobujiro in his weapon-quicken aura and the ground at his feet. He tried to remember Akira’s lessons about Komichi Na Ryuuki. If he were to defeat Nobujiro, he would need to know the mechanics of the Payon Knight’s potent fighting style…

• • •

Komichi Na Ryuuki flows with the Tao. Phenomena occur when they do because the greater balance sees it fit. A Komichi Na Ryuuki fighter feels no malice, spite, or anger towards his opponent.

No malice, spite, or anger, Shin-ju wondered, the tension in his face and limbs easing at the thought. Only what needs to be done?

Komichi Na Ryuuki flows with the Tao. Like how the Yin opposes and complements the Yang at all times, the Komichi Na Ryuuki fighter switches between pure offense and pure defense at will during combat. It is only at the curved line between the Yin and the Yang—the thin, infinitely uncertain overlap of the two forces—that a Komichi Na Ryuuki fighter can hope to be defeated.

On the thin overlap of the two forces? Shin-ju thought. I wish I asked Mr. Akira what he meant by that! Damn!

Above all, Komichi Na Ryuuki is not to be used with malice. It is the Grandmaster’s will that the sword only be used for good. It is then that the Komichi Na Ryuuki practitioner will realize the full extent of the Fighting Art’s power.

Only for the good, Shin-ju concluded. Nobujiro is not using Komichi Na Ryuuki to its limits…

Which means…

…Nobujiro has a weak point.

…

…AND I KNOW WHAT IT IS!

• • •

In a single instant, Shin-ju grasped his right forearm. He opened his right hand and used all his might to conjure a small ball of light under his palm. Then he looked up just in time to see Nobujiro standing over his kneeling position, his Katana already on its downswing towards Shin-ju’s neck.

Nobujiro’s blade met nothing but air.

“Nani—” Nobujiro spat, instinctively jumping back to a defensive position.

Too late, the Payon Knight saw Shin-ju’s foot swing inwards and slamming its instep into his hands. Nobujiro gaped in confusion as his Katana came flying out of his hands, viciously kicked aside by the boy.

Shin-ju’s position changed in a split-second!

“I understand now,” Shin-ju whispered as he landed on his kicking foot. “The uncertain overlap between the two forces… a Komichi Na Ryuuki fighter is vulnerable when he switches between offense and defense.”

Shin-ju turned his fiery gray stare into Nobujiro’s face.

“Especially one who uses the Fighting Art to his own ends!” Shin-ju yelled.

Without his sword, Nobujiro feebly tried to defend himself as his body fell victim to a ferocious barrage of kicks—an axe kick to his forehead, two lighting-fast back-kicks to the midsection and throat, and finally a sweeping somersault flash kick that slammed under his chin.

“Im—impossible…” Nobujiro managed to mutter in mid-air, seeing Shin-ju’s form once more as he somersaulted backwards in recoil to the powerful flash kick.

Shin-ju yelled as he lunged at Nobujiro’s falling form, flinging his entire right side forward and smashing a closed fist into the Payon Knight’s armored chest. The armor dented inwards from the crushing final blow, and Nobujiro flew helplessly backwards before crashing into a pine tree, shaking it to its tips above the forest canopy.

The Nomad boy gasped, immediately feeling the strain from the exertion and the pain in his wounds. He grasped his shoulder as he slowly approached the motionless form of Nobujiro. The Payon Knight was unconscious, lying face-down in front of the pine tree. A few pine cones fell on his back, shaken off their branches by the impact.

“I… I don’t understand,” Shin-ju whispered to himself. “I believed Mr. Akira’s lessons on the pre-destiny set by Tao… I believed Nobujiro when he said there was no escaping fate... and yet… I defeated him? And yet… I’m alive?”

There was not a sound in the forest, save for the morning wind blowing through the trees. The boy’s attention was so focused on the mysterious turn of events that he did not notice, behind him, several iron-tipped arrows drawn well back into longbows… aimed at him.

Shin-ju turned around—and froze.

• • •

Mikieru pulled the Redeemer free from the rock face and plummeted fifty feet down into the mountain pass below. His feet slammed into the ground harmlessly, and the Cleric stood up and faced Garrione one more time.

The two old friends looked daunting in their face-off. Garrione was heavily armored in gold full-plate mail, and Mikieru was menacing in his armored Cleric’s coat. Their weapons were equally intimidating—a large silver quarterstaff-mace pitted against a seven-foot long sword wrapped in flames.

“The name?” Garrione laughed, seeing Mikieru’s eyes on his burning sword. “Kitsune, allow me to introduce you to Sinjustice. Forged by the best swordmakers in Midgard and cast in nothing but the cold, clean sheath of justice. With this, I will hunt down all those who have spat on our honor and singe them with the trial by fire that they truly deserve.”

“Singe-justice,” the Cleric repeated. “Apt.”

“We are the same, Kitsune,” the Knight-Mage declared. “But if you continue to stand in our way, do not think yourself any different from those fools who betrayed us.”

Mikieru said nothing.

“Not another word, then,” Garrione mocked, raising Sinjustice above his head.

Mikieru’s eyes widened when he felt the air—and the elemental mana—around him swirl violently. Instinctively he flung himself to the side, barely avoiding the tongues of flame that exploded outward from his original position.

Napalm Beat! Mikieru thought, recognizing the Sorcery as he rolled on the ground. The sword gives Garrione the power to cast Mage spells!

Mikieru jumped to his feet. Too late, he saw several bolts of fire flying from Sinjustice’s blade towards him.

Fire Bolt, too? The Cleric thought madly, holding the Redeemer horizontally in front of him in defense. This is not good…

With his Blessing-amplified strength, Mikieru rotated the shaft of the long mace in ever-quickening circles. The bolts of fire met the Redeemer in loud hissing sounds, dissipating and deflecting off of it.

As soon as the last fire bolt bounced off the Redeemer, Mikieru let go. His hands were on fire. The long mace flew from his hands, propelled by the torque of the Cleric’s defensive move, and bounced on the ground several meters away from him. Hidden among the villagers, Jared swore he saw smoke rising from the shaft of the Redeemer.

Mikieru quickly doused the flames on his gloved hands on his Cleric’s coat. Then he looked up at Garrione’s original position. The Knight-Mage was not there.

The Cleric looked upwards and saw Garrione’s huge form descending upon him, his fiery sword raised high above his head.

Mikieru immediately jumped backwards, avoiding the blade, but there was no escaping what happened next. Garrione, oblivious to the Cleric’s evasion, slammed the blade into the ground and yelled:

“MAGNUM BREAK!”

The Cleric gaped as a ball of fire erupted around Garrione and expanded towards him. On instinct, Mikieru crossed his forearms in front of his face in defense—and the flames tore through his frame.

The villagers screamed—and the Occultists cheered—as Mikieru crashed onto his back and skidded to a stop. The Cleric lay motionless for a few moments, smoke rising from the burnt fabrics of his Cleric’s Coat.

Garrione breathed deeply, feeling the strain of the powerful move’s execution. He smiled in satisfaction, unperturbed even as Mikieru showed signs of life and struggled back to his feet.

Mikieru gasped as he stood on two feet, his arms dangling from his shoulders. He was dazed. The battery of blade and fire overwhelmed him, and now he was caught without the Redeemer in his hands.

Yet there was no emotion in his face when he looked into Garrione’s eyes again. He said no word as he took his burnt Cleric’s Coat from his shoulders and flung it aside. Then he assumed a passive defensive stance… very calmly.

“We are the same, Garrione,” Mikieru intoned. “I seek justice as well… for what you have done to these people, your people, and the people of Al de Baran.”

• • •

To be continued

[Mikey]

“Matte!” a breathless female voice yelped from behind the bowmen. “I know him! He is with us!”

Shin-ju’s half-closed eyes widened at the sound of the familiar voice. From behind the bushes, the bowmen rose to their feet and lowered their longbows when a kimono-clad young girl came darting through their midst towards the Nomad boy.

Shin-ju exhaled heartily. “Yoriko,” he muttered, feeling the tension leave his existence at the sight of the girl.

“Shin-ju-kun! You are alive!” the girl squeaked, grasping the boy’s arms as if trying to hold him up. “I am so happy!”

The boy nodded, his eyes instead fixed on the soldiers behind the girl. He made a quick head count, estimating a platoon-sized force.

“Shin-ju?” Akira’s voice came, moving through the soldiers’ ranks. “What is going on? Why are you here? And… what did you do to him?”

Everyone within earshot of Akira turned to stare at Nobujiro’s motionless form, lying face-down behind the boy.

“It’s… it’s a trap, Mr. Akira,” Shin-ju said, feebly grasping Yoriko’s kimono sleeves for support. “The Taishou… the Taishou has betrayed us. He’s working with Garrione. He’s after Jared’s Stone.”

Akira nodded grimly. “I know.”

“You… you do?”

• • •

Over the next fifteen minutes, Akira and his platoon set up a temporary camp to secure Nobujiro and to regroup—it seemed as though they left Payon in a hurry. As Akira explained himself to Shin-ju, it soon became clear—they were all fooled.

Akira had noticed that he had not received any field reports from the supposed decommissioning of 500 Payon Knights from the Sograt Garrisons for four days. Two days’ delay alone was already cause to worry. Despite his efforts, he was not given any information from the Taishou’s War Council. It wasn’t until he received a reply from his own informant in the Sograt Garrisons that he realized something was terribly wrong.

According to Akira’s informant, three thousand Payon Knights loyal to the Taishou was decommissioned from the Sograt Garrisons. The 3,000 were not chosen at random, as well—it seemed as though they had been pre-selected and were somehow aware of it. In addition, they were not ordered to go to Prontera—they were instead ordered to ride directly to Al de Baran.

“And then, early this morning, I received word from another informant in Al de Baran… he said the Machine City was on fire,” Akira explained. “I knew Garrione does not have enough men under his arm to bring Al de Baran to its knees. It led me to the improbable conclusion that the anarchy was not started by the Occultists… but by the 3,000 decommissioned Payon Knights.”

Shin-ju nodded, wincing slightly as Yoriko cleaned the wounds on his arms. “Were you able to confirm the reports?”

”I had no time,” Akira admitted. “But knowing the situation, I had to risk erring on the side of caution—I immediately took Yoriko and one hundred of those loyal to me and rode out of Payon as soon as possible. I felt I was in danger, and so was my daughter.”

The Nomad boy nodded again, lowering his head. “I’m… I’m just glad you’re both okay, Mr. Akira.”

“Now tell me, Shin-ju-kun… why are you here? And where are Mikieru and Jared?”

Shin-ju swallowed slightly. “I… left the party, Mr. Akira. I left them and headed back towards Payon. I wanted to make sure Yori… I wanted to make sure both of you were okay.”

Yoriko tried her hardest not to turn red when she heard that.

“You left them?” Akira repeated, dumbstruck. “Why? What happened?”

“We were… attacked, Mr. Akira. The four escorts sent by the Taishou were Occultists in disguise. Three of them tried to kill us in our sleep, but Senpai—Mikieru—saw through the ruse somehow. He was able to stop the three. The fourth was Nobujiro. We were all assuming he was headed for Al de Baran, but in fact he was returning to Payon. I ran into him on my way here.”

“He was returning to Payon… which means…”

“He was in the Taishou’s service.”

Akira rose, a grim look on his face. “Where are Mikieru and Jared now, Shin-ju?”

“They’re probably on their way to Al de Baran by now…”

Akira nodded at the boy’s answer, immediately turning towards his soldiers and bellowing commands to break camp and to ride on his order. Within minutes, all of them were on their Peco-pecos, riding at full gallop north—towards Al de Baran.

• • •

Mikieru pushed off the ground and lunged towards Garrione, fists clenched. The Knight-Mage immediately raised Sinjustice in front of his face and summoned another Napalm Beat spell—one that exploded inches behind the rapidly accelerating Cleric.

Undaunted, Garrione raised the flaming sword high above his head and threw it down in an arc, releasing several bolts of fire that snaked through the air towards Mikieru with unerring accuracy.

Mikieru suddenly changed direction, and instead of running towards Garrione he sprinted towards the rock face. The fire bolts crashed into the ground behind him as he evaded the spell with his amplified speed.

Jared and the villagers gaped in awe as Mikieru planted his feet on the cliff face of the mountain pass and ran vertically at an angle towards Garrione. The last fire bolt slammed into a boulder that Mikieru had leapt off of, sending it tumbling down the rock face and slamming in front of the stunned Occultists watching the fight.

Garrione grinned, seeing Mikieru’s form spiraling in mid-air towards him. He tried not to laugh, truly amused by the Cleric’s desperation tactic. As Mikieru descended, the Knight-Mage spun on his feet, gathering momentum—and red-hot flames—into his blade.

“It ends now!” Garrione yelled, throwing his sword in a two-handed downward slash aimed at Mikieru’s shoulder.

“MAGNUM BREAK!”

The Knight-Mage failed to notice that one of Mikieru’s hands was clenched on his chest, flicking outward as Sinjustice swung in and opening at the last moment. The Cleric shouted, in a voice louder than Garrione’s:

“KYRIE ELEISON!”

Garrione’s eyes widened as his sword met something much harder than he had expected. A loud sound—seemingly that of a tolling church bell—accompanied the impact, and the Knight-Mage stared at the unbelievable fact that Mikieru had stopped Sinjustice with one of his hands.

Mikieru grimaced as the flames tore through his body once more. Kyrie Eleison managed to stop Sinjustice’s blade from cleaving him in two, but the clear shield spell was not powerful enough to block the magical flames that accompanied Magnum Break. It was all he could do to open his free hand and summon a ball of mana—about a foot in diameter, and pulsating with pure organic energy.

In that single chaotic moment after Sinjustice met Kyrie Eleison, Mikieru flung his other arm forward and released the ball of mana, throwing it squarely into the flaming blade.

“HOLY LIGHT!”

Garrione let loose a prolonged grunt as the ball of crackling antimatter slammed into his sword and pushed him back, back, and further back, his greaves leaving two jagged cracks on the ground as Mikieru’s Holy Light carried him thirty meters back from the original impact point.

The Occultists watching the fight made sounds of trepidation as their leader was pushed back—the villagers were too stunned by the bright flash that accompanied Holy Light that none of them made a sound.

Mikieru landed on the ground and fell on one knee, gasping for air. He wiped his lip with the back of his hand and looked up, seeing Garrione and a raised Sinjustice thirty meters away. It wasn’t until the dust and smoke cleared that the Cleric saw the extent of the damage he had delivered.

Garrione was panting, staring at the armor on his arms. Sinjustice was unharmed by the Holy Light orb, but his armored gauntlets were shattered into several jagged pieces, some of which dug painfully into the Knight-Mage’s skin.

Garrione raised his eyes from his bleeding hands to Mikieru. He had not expected Mikieru to have known Kyrie Eleison and Holy Light—none of their experiences together in the Frontier War had forced the Cleric to use those skills. The Knight-Mage gritted his teeth at the idea that he had grossly underestimated his former comrade—and now paid for it. Already, Mikieru had already risen to his feet and was charging another pulsating orb in his hands.

The Knight-Mage closed his eyes in resignation, his grip easing around Sinjustice’s hilt and the flames on its blade dying down. In a casual manner, he reached behind him and strapped the sword to his back in a gesture that the fight was over.

Mikieru mimicked the gesture, releasing his old on the Holy Light spell and dissipating its mana into thin air. “So,” he said out loud, “am I to understand that we are to call this a draw?”

“Quite, Kitsune,” Garrione answered, raising his hand and giving signals to his soldiers. “I have underestimated you. You are more than what you seem. You may in a sense say that I have lost some taste for Wycrow and his Stone… and instead, I find the prospect of a second battle with you much more appealing.”

Mikieru looked behind him. The Occultists, although bewildered at their leader’s abrupt concession, obeyed unquestioningly. They picked up their injured comrades and limped past the Cleric towards Garrione. Some of them shot defiant looks at Mikieru as they passed by.

Garrione mounted his Peco-peco and faced the villagers, issuing his final warning to Jared.

“Wycrow! Hear this! Napolde is alive for now! But unless you show yourself in Al de Baran before the Clock Tower strikes noon tomorrow, she dies! I will not say this again!”

Hidden in the village, Jared shuddered at the sound of Napolde’s name. He greatly feared the undeniable fact that he had to go back into the Machine City, but he was relieved at the news that Napolde was still alive… or so Garrione said.

“And as for you, Kitsune,” Garrione warned, pointing a bloody finger at the Cleric, “you are to accompany Jared to Al de Baran. You have twenty-four hours. We will meet at the Clock Tower square to finish our dealings. You will honor this ultimatum, if you value your life and the lives of these… as you would call them… innocents.”

“These people are no longer your bargaining chips, Garrione,” Mikieru replied. “This is between you and me.”

“You know not of what you speak, Kitsune. Circumstances might suggest to you that this is a blind search for power and vengeance, but this is just the beginning. Do not fool yourself. These people are not in safety yet. This is only the beginning, Kitsune, and mark my words… only one of us will live to see the end.”

With that vague, dire warning, Garrione turned around and rode away. His soldiers followed him. Mikieru waited until the riders were but a cloud of rising dust at the mouth of the mountain pass before he limped towards the Redeemer to pick it up.

“Come! We must help him!”

Audible whispers came from the villagers, and Mikieru soon found a few able-bodied men offering to help him stay on his feet. A man tried to pick the Redeemer off the ground, only to solicit the assistance of two other men, one of whom was Ranche, after a few vain attempts.

Ranche looked on with awe as he and the two other men lifted the heavy quarterstaff-mace and followed the limping Cleric back to camp. He thought about how Mikieru chose to stand in Garrione’s way to protect them… putting his own life on the line as if it was worth nothing. It amazed him that a stranger—one that he even called a traitor only minutes ago—would willingly stand for their right to live.

Who is this man? Ranche thought to himself. What does it mean to walk the path he walks?

• • •

To be continued

[Mikey]

Gorban and the villagers broke camp and moved south to Prontera soon after the battle. The village elder had left food, water, and blankets for Mikieru and Jared, who had opted to remain in the mountain pass. The Cleric had to recuperate quickly—Garrione had given them twenty-four hours, and Al de Baran was still an eight-hour ride away.

After receiving several well-wishes and words of gratitude from the villagers, Mikieru and Jared found themselves alone in the mountain pass once again.

Jared had found a cave not far from the original campsite, and decided to build a fire inside. While he cooked a batch of vegetable soup, sweetmeats and rolls, Mikieru lay on his back, wrapped in a blanket.

The Merchant had to say something. He was the cause of all this. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mikieru had guessed his thoughts.

“No words need to be said between us, Jared,” Mikieru said, his eyes closed. “We both did what needed to be done. That is all there is to it. That is all that is important.”

Jared cleared his throat. The Cleric’s comments made him feel even worse.

“I just feel so helpless, Mike… that’s all,” he replied. “It’s just that by doing the right thing, I’m putting you in danger. It’s just that by doing what needs to be done, I made all those people leave their homes. I look at all this… and I can’t find a single damned reason why keeping this Stone was the right thing to do.”

An audible exhalation came out of Mikieru’s mouth. “I believe in you, Jared. I believe keeping the Stone was the right thing to do. And you do not have to worry about me. We are doing the right thing… and nothing makes me happier than doing what is right.”

Jared wearily raised his eyes from the steaming pot over the fire. He looked at Mikieru as the Cleric weakly lifted his silver cross off his chest and eyed it quietly.

The Merchant wondered why Mikieru was so sure of things. Perhaps the Cleric had seen enough in the Frontier War to know for a certainty the difference between right and wrong? Or perhaps the Church taught him? Whatever it was, he wanted to know—he was in desperate need to convince himself that this path was indeed the right one.

“Why do you fight, Mike?” Jared asked. “What’s it all for?”

Mikieru laid the cross back on his chest again. “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing, Jared,” the Cleric answered after a thoughtful moment. “I am only doing that which is expected of me.”

• • •

Night fell over the Northern Realms.

Akira and his riders have been riding for the past twelve hours. They stopped when darkness fell, and set up camp in the hilly fields east of Prontera.

Akira made his rounds in the camp, meeting with his captains and giving instructions to ride out at first light. Al de Baran was still ten hours away, and they were already too late as they were.

The bright lights and the distant murmur of activity in Prontera was calming for many of the riders. Shin-ju was no exception—as soon as Akira’s tent was put up, he plopped down onto one of the futons. He didn’t even stop to take off his shoes—he was dead tired from two days’ lack of sleep and the battle with Nobujiro earlier that day. Already, he was feeling his consciousness slip into oblivion, drifting away into the one silence of the Prontera foothills and the quiet, collective hum of the Northern Capital’s citizens.

He snapped back into wakefulness when he felt his shoes being taken off.

“Ai,” Yoriko squeaked. “I am sorry, Shin-ju-kun… I did not mean to wake you…”

Shin-ju said nothing, but tried to push himself into a position where he could see her.

“Please, do not get up… you must get some rest…”

Naturally, Shin-ju sat up and faced the kneeling girl.

“It’s… it’s great to see you, Yoriko,” Shin-ju said quietly. “I… was so worried.”

Yoriko smiled, nodding. “Me, too,” she replied. “The Tao has been good to us both.”

“Yeah, the, uh… Tao,” he stammered, all of a sudden remembering his victory against Nobujiro.

“Is something wrong, Shin-ju-kun?” she asked, reaching up to feel his forehead. “Something is bothering you?”

“No… it’s just…” Shin-ju began.

The boy’s mind was raging. He remembered that he used to be convinced by the power of the Tao to predict one’s circumstances in the future. He knew he was supposed to be dead by now, but instead he survived. He defeated an agent of the Taishou. He managed to go against what, in Nobujiro’s words, was an inescapable tide.

How?

“Shin-ju-kun?” Yoriko asked, worried.

Shin-ju sighed and lay down on the futon again, his eyes on the roof of the tent. “Yoriko… do you believe in Fate?”

Yoriko thought about this for a moment, leaving Shin-ju to continue.

“I don’t know if you’ve felt this before, but… I just felt it today. It was a sensation… not guilt… but it made me feel as though I had done something terribly wrong. I felt as though I had gone against the will of the Tao… I’m alive when I should be dead. That’s all… it just bothers me, not knowing whether or not I did the right thing.”

The girl listened. Then a smile escaped her countenance.

Shin-ju saw her smile, and he turned to look at her questioningly.

“The Tao is very good to me,” Yoriko gushed quietly. “I am so happy. You did nothing wrong, Shin-ju-kun. If you are alive today, I would very much like to think that it is because of me.”

“You?” Shin-ju asked, wanting to understand what she meant.

“Yes,” she said, inching towards the boy’s side. “You remember that night at the Temple Grounds? We went to an altar and made our wishes known to the Tao?”

Shin-ju nodded slowly.

“This was what I wished, Shin-ju-kun. I wished that you would find what you were looking for… whatever it might have been. You have not found it yet, have you?”

He shook his head after a moment’s reflection.

“Then you did not go against the Tao. Instead, the Tao is very much with you… how good it must be to us, now that it is keeping true to my wish. You did nothing wrong.”

Shin-ju closed his eyes, allowing himself to smile a bit. “You made… that wish… for me?” he whispered, the contentment slowly washing away the apprehension in his mind.

“Um,” Yoriko whispered back, lying down in the futon beside him. “And I do wish you find what it is you are looking for… very, very soon.”

After a few moments, Shin-ju fell asleep. Yoriko stayed up for a while longer after he dozed off, watching his sleeping form with a very contented… almost affectionate… manner.

• • •

The thatch roofs of the mud huts were on fire.

Gasping, Shin-ju madly looked around him. There were gigantic towers of flame leaping into the black sky. Screaming people were running around in the blind chaos. Bloody corpses littered the rocky ground. He was desperately looking for… someone.

“Isaac!”

Shin-ju wildly turned his head to the shrill female scream. In the dark, he recognized the teary, pale blue eyes on the little Nomad girl who was running towards him.

“Naomi!” he yelled back in his... youthful… voice…

Shin-ju ran towards the little girl as fast as his bare feet could carry him. Quickly he swept her into his arms and looked around for a way out of the carnage. When he spotted an exit between two rows of burning huts, he rose to his feet and sprinted for it.

Shin-ju jumped over several bloody corpses and, amid the screams all around him, emerged into a dark, grassy clearing. The little girl in his arms wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her with him. He had to get as far away from the village as quickly as possible.

Then he heard a Peco-peco’s squawk a few meters in front of him. He stopped running and stared ahead.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Shin-ju saw several armored men on Peco-pecos, armed with swords, spears, and crossbows. The fire from the burning village behind him reflected in their blades, armor, and eyes.

Shin-ju turned to run in another direction, but stopped as he heard Peco-peco footbeats in front of him. Looking around, he fearfully realized that he was surrounded by a platoon of Prontera Knights.

As he stood in the middle of their circle, a rider in a long black coat came forward. Shin-ju raised his eyes to the rider.

The rider was a Priest.

Shin-ju squinted--the Priest looked familiar.

The Priest was tall. He had long, half-parted brown hair. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.

“S-Sen… Senpai?” Shin-ju asked, his eyes filling with tears.

Shin-ju fell to his knees and protected the little girl with his body as Mikieru raised a bloody Mace over his head, aiming for the Nomad boy’s nape.

“Why?”

• • •

“So,” a soft female voice asked, “found it yet?”

• • •

Shin-ju sat bolt upright on the futon, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His heart was beating wildly, and his breathing was pained. He tried to remember the frightening things he saw in his dream.

Senpai tried to kill me? Shin-ju thought wildly. Why?

He made a move to get off the futon, but stopped when he realized that Yoriko was still beside him. The girl was sound asleep, the fingers of one hand entwined around his sleeve.

And I do wish you find what it is you are looking for… very, very soon.

Yoriko, Shin-ju thought, calming down at the sight of her pretty face.

Slowly, the boy leaned down, brushed a few strands of her long black hair from her face, and placed a kiss on her cheek.

“Thank you,” he whispered. Then he pulled his sleeve free from her fingers and got up from the futon. He took his shoes and exited the tent as quickly and as quietly as he could.

• • •

Akira was in the War Tent with his officers discussing their plans for the upcoming approach to Al de Baran when they heard a slight commotion outside. Akira stepped out to see what was going on, his astonished eyes adjusting to the darkness in time to see Shin-ju riding away from camp on his Peco-peco.

Shin-ju was northbound.

• • •

End of Chapter Nine

[Mikey]

Chapter Ten
Al de Baran On Fire

Mikieru and Jared got up and began the ride to Al de Baran an hour before the sun rose. Neither said much during the ride over the Mjolnir Mountain Range. Both of them knew that today, their questions would be answered—and that this day might be their last.

Jared’s worst fears came to manifest when, after eight hours of riding, they crested a ridge over the Al de Baran’s bare foothills and beheld the Machine City for the first time.

Al de Baran was not a city by any means—it was a loose conglomeration of coal mining villages that grew on the Mjolnir foothills and bonded together under a Steward. Houses, which were little more than glorified hovels, were grouped in clusters that rose from the low wall around the front and sides of the Machine city towards the mountainside behind it. The ancient Clock Tower, which was Al de Baran’s only bow to vanity, could be seen faintly from where Mikieru and Jared stood—if one squinted enough to see it through the rising pillars of smoke and dust.

Northfolk and migrants from the Republic of Schwartzvald have been settling in the villages in and around Al de Baran centuries before Prontera was established as the Capital of the Northern Realms. If it weren’t for the founding of the Payon Shogunate and Prontera’s commercial satellite, Izlude, Al de Baran might have been worthy of holding the title of Capital over Prontera. Its distance from the Midgard trade routes proved to its disadvantage, however, and Al de Baran had to settle with the reputation of being a Machine City, where coal miners, inventors, and potion alchemists made their living in quiet, indifferent solitude.

Now, however, Jared mournfully noted the absence of Al de Baran’s standards flying over the perimeter fortifications. They had been replaced by black banners bearing white swords and gavels—the new insignia, he surmised, of the Old Occultists.

“We’re here,” Jared exhaled.

“Yes,” Mikieru answered just as quietly.

“Are you scared?”

The Cleric took a moment before answering. “If this is the judgment I get for what I have done in the past, then I probably deserve it.”

Jared glanced at his friend dourly. “C’mon,” he said, disbelieving. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Mikieru lowered his eyes as he gave his reply. “You know, Jared… if you asked me that question five months ago, I would tell you that I was right. But that was five months ago. Back then, I had not met Shin-ju, and my past sins had not yet surfaced and faced me. Now… I would try to convince the both of us that this indeed is my judgment, if only to derive some semblance of sense from this madness.”

The Merchant stared at Mikieru for a few moments before turning to look at the Machine City once more. “Well, it’s done then,” he sighed. “I guess I ought to take this opportunity to thank you for doing this?”

An audible chuckle escaped Mikieru’s lips, and Jared turned to look at him again. The Cleric had a slight smile when they looked at each other.

“Save it for the ride home, Jared,” the Cleric said, flicking the reins on his Peco-peco. “This may be my judgment, but it does not change the fact that I will do everything I can.”

The Merchant watched as Mikieru rode down the ridge towards Al de Baran’s front gate-house. Then he allowed himself to laugh a little, also trying to convince himself that in some way, somehow, they would be able to survive this.

• • •

A horrid scene met them as they approached the front gates. The bodies of slain Knights and Constables were tied and raised on pikes that lined the approach to the gate. Jared gaped at the bodies, his hand over his mouth in dread, while Mikieru rode ahead, seemingly oblivious to the bodies and the smoke and the stench.

As if on cue, the solid oaken gates opened, pulled open by men in black bandanas. Mikieru and Jared rode through as though they expected it, drawing stares and jeering glances from the armed Occultists lining the streets.

Hundreds, maybe thousands, Jared thought apprehensively, eyeing the Occultists from under his hood. I never knew Garrione mustered this many Occultists… but how?

Mikieru stared straight ahead, on the browning cobblestone road that rose towards Clock Tower square. Occultists dotted his peripheral vision, but he paid no mind. He knew he would come to no harm until he reached the square—he knew Garrione too well. The Knight-Mage would not cheapen his quest for vengeance—or, as Garrione would unendingly insist, justice—by stabbing Mikieru and Jared in the back.

The sight carried on for a while, until Mikieru and Jared rode into the confines of Clock Tower square. The Merchant took off his hood to look up at the crumbling edifice at the end of the square—the face of the clock read five minutes to twelve.

Mikieru slowed his Peco’s pace to a trot, and Jared followed. They took time to notice that the Occultists were coming into the square seemingly from all directions. Everyone was here to watch their leader crush the two people standing between them and their goal.

The Cleric and the Merchant stopped at a point about a hundred paces from the steps of the Clock Tower. They waited. The Occultists settled into mobs around the square, eagerly waiting to see their leader.

And as the clock struck twelve, the bell tolled loudly—and the oaken double-doors slowly creaked open.

Garrione stepped out to be greeted by a loud cheer given by the Occultists. Jared shuddered at the sight of the seven-foot tall Knight-Mage, but Mikieru only tightened his lips.

The Knight-Mage was clad in his gold full-plate mail, and Sinjustice was in one hand. A long black cape billowed behind him as he descended the stone steps, followed by an entourage of burly Occultist bodyguards.

Garrione had a smirk on his lips. He reached the end of the stairs and stood there, his cape flying in the filthy wind, the large black blade of Sinjustice in full view for everyone to see. To Jared’s puzzlement, Garrione said nothing while his bodyguards moved away from their master and formed a group about thirty meters to the Knight-Mage’s right.

When his bodyguards stopped, Garrione turned to Mikieru and spoke for the first time.

“I knew you would not let me down, Kitsune,” he called. “You are no coward.”

Mikieru shook his head calmly. “I am not here for your sake, Garrione,” he answered.

“Oh?” the Knight-Mage laughed. “Excuse me, then. I was always under the impression that, in the eternal battle between good and evil, Priests are always the first to take up arms.”

Mikieru was not swayed. “Are you evil?”

“It depends,” Garrione mocked, raising Sinjustice’s blade to point at the Cleric. “Do you believe you are good?”

The Cleric cringed at Garrione’s mocking mind games. He shook his head in annoyance and decided to go straight to the point.

“Look, I have no desire to talk to you,” Mikieru said. “Where is she?”

“Oh?” Garrione laughed again, clearly enjoying having Mikieru at his mercy. “So she is your charge, now?”

“You claimed she lives,” came the Cleric’s impatient reply. “Where is she held?”

The Knight-Mage decided he had enjoyed himself enough, and he turned his head to nod at his bodyguards.

Unquestioningly, the burly Occultists parted to reveal, shackled in their midst, a distraught female Elf.

Jared lurched forward on instinct. “NAPOLDE!” he screamed. He made the attempt to ride towards her, but was held back by Mikieru’s gloved hand on his chest.

Napolde raised her face to Jared. Her face looked as though she had been crying. She gave him the look of one betrayed and weakly lipped the words to him:

Why did you come back?

At Garrione’s hand command, the Occultists unlocked the chains from her neck and wrists. They took their hands from her and slowly walked away, leaving her standing alone.

Mikieru’s eyebrows knotted at this gesture. What is the meaning of this? he thought.

Jared could not hold himself back. Tears brimming in his eyes, he shoved Mikieru’s arm aside and galloped towards her.

“NAPOLDE!” Jared screamed.

“NO!” Napolde screamed back.

“JARED, DON’T!” Mikieru shouted, too late.

Grinning evilly, Garrione lifted Sinjustice over his head, swung it in circles, and threw it in a downward slash aimed in Napolde’s direction. Almost instantly, everyone in Clock Tower square felt the violent movement of elemental mana as it centered around Napolde.

A bright flash—and a roaring, searing heat—exploded into life around Napolde. Jared’s Peco squawked loudly and reared up, throwing the Merchant off the saddle. Jared got up on his elbows and knees as Mikieru rode up beside him, and both of them gaped in fear at the tall tongues of flame that leaped upward from Napolde’s position.

“NO!” Jared yelled desperately. “NAPOLDE!”

“Jared!” Napolde’s voice came from behind the flames.

Mikieru squinted from behind his dark glasses. Through the leaping flames, he barely made out the Elf’s form—on her knees, but alive. The flames seemed to form a ring on the ground around her, preventing any hope of escape or rescue.

Garrione laughed loudly. “And you call yourself a Merchant, Wycrow? You should know better than anyone else that nothing in this world is free!”

Jared turned to Garrione with angry, teary eyes. “You BASTARD!” he yelled.

“You know what is needed to free her, Wycrow! Give me the Stone!”

In a total loss, Jared carelessly patted his jacket for the Stone—and Garrione immediately concluded that the Stone was on the Merchant’s person.

From behind the flames, Napolde heard Garrione’s demand. Helplessly, she craned her neck and wailed, “Jared, please DON’T!”

Panicked, Jared put both hands over the inside pocket where he hid the Stone, bewilderedly looking between Garrione and the ring of fire surrounding the Elf.

“She will suffocate in fifteen minutes, Wycrow! Do not delay her release!” Garrione yelled.

Jared looked away and shut his eyes tight. “Sh-shut up!” he yelled, shaking his head.

“Jared, do not give it to him! PLEASE!” Napolde begged, sobbing loudly.

“Fifteen minutes! She will die for your indecision, Wycrow! Surrender it!” Garrione’s bellow came again.

“SHUT UP!” Jared bared his teeth, placing his hands over his ears.

“JARED, NO!” the Elf whimpered helplessly.

“She dies, Wycrow!” the Knight-Mage screamed. “Refuse to submit and her death is yours!”

• • •

“SHUT UP!”

Jared opened his eyes in surprise. Slowly he lifted his head from his hands and looked up, trying to see who said those two words.

Mikieru had dismounted and now stood between Jared and Garrione. The Knight-Mage frowned at the sight of the Cleric, watching with narrowed eyes as Mikieru took a few steps towards him, taking the Redeemer into his hands.

“No one dies today, Garrione!” the Cleric yelled loudly. “I challenge you!”

The Knight-Mage stared at his old ally with mild anger. He exhaled in exasperation, shaking his head. “What are you doing, Kitsune?” he asked. “You do nothing but accept the judgment of those above you, even when you know you have done nothing wrong. You perpetuate the injustice by not taking action, and instead you decide to stand against that which would be your saving grace!”

Mikieru raised the Redeemer. “Your hands do not hold my redemption, Garrione,” he finished. “It holds nothing but the fire of your greed.”

Now Garrione was visibly furious. He raised Sinjustice and summoned flames onto its black blade.

“You would do well not to insult me again, Kitsune,” he warned as he and Mikieru faced off. “Nothing… and no one… stands in my way.”

Mikieru fixed his gaze on the Knight-Mage even as he gave his final instructions to Jared.

“Jared, do me one favor,” the Cleric said calmly. “Move away. Do not find yourself in a position where you are closer to Garrione than I am. And do not worry… this will all be over in fifteen minutes.”

• • •

To be continued

[Mikey]

Mikieru attacked first. With his right hand, he charged a pulsating ball of Holy Light and flung it towards Garrione’s face. The Knight-Mage jumped aside, the orb flying past him and smashing into the Clock Tower’s stone steps and demolishing a part of the concrete railing. Garrione grimaced as he eyed the damage—he had no trouble avoiding the spell’s line of fire, but he also knew that even his armor would not be strong enough to deflect its power.

Garrione turned his eyes back to Mikieru as he landed on the ground. The Cleric had vanished from his position. Wide-eyed, the Knight-Mage twisted around and instinctively raised Sinjustice in front of his face in defense. Mikieru was already beside him, already in mid-swing of a one-handed backhand Redeemer smash. The iron head met Garrione's flaming sword, thwarted.

The Cleric’s face showed no emotion as he maintained his lightning attack. He moved forward, swinging the Redeemer in arcs and trading blow after mighty blow with Sinjustice. Garrione was pressed back into defense, managing to halt Mikieru’s onslaught when his flaming sword managed to catch the Cleric’s long mace on its way down to his head.

Garrione held Sinjustice with two hands as he pushed Mikieru’s heavy weapon away from his face. Mikieru twisted as he moved backwards, revealing another ball of Holy Light charging in his right hand. His back to the Knight-Mage, he threw the pulsing ball of light towards Garrione’s face with a flick of his wrist. The Knight-Mage ducked to avoid the Holy Light ball, only to see Mikieru’s boot rising towards his unprotected face.

Mikieru’s roundhouse kick slammed into Garrione’s jaw, and the Knight-Mage staggered backwards with a grunt.

The Cleric planted both his feet on the ground and lunged towards Garrione, the Redeemer held horizontally behind him in his left hand, his right hand leading the attack in front of him.

Too quickly, as if in momentary desperation, Garrione raised Sinjustice and looked though its ornate hilt. The tongues of flame enveloping the blade grew larger as the Knight-Mage summoned a Fire Bolt spell.

Sharp bolts of fire emerged from the flaming blade and whipped towards the rapidly-approaching Mikieru. The Cleric was too close, giving the fire bolts little time to adjust their trajectories, and Mikieru lightly leaped over them and threw the Redeemer in a downward smash aimed at Garrione's temple. Garrione, not recovering fast enough, threw his blade upwards in defense. He managed to block the Redeemer smash, but Mikieru was able to land on the ground and throw a side-thrust kick into Garrione's armored midsection. Once again, the Knight-Mage was thrown a few steps backward.

• • •

The Occultists who were watching roared in fury.

Jared manage to smile a bit, his eager eyes watching every precise move that Mikieru executed.

Garrione spat angrily as they faced off again. Mikieru had somehow seen through his fighting strategy. The Cleric was alternating throwing his Holy Light spells and attacking in close range, giving the Knight-Mage little time to recover and launch a calculated attack. This was Garrione’s one weakness—while his zeal for fighting was unmatched, he was not much of a tactician.

• • •

Damn it, the Knight-Mage fumed quietly. Kitsune hides his true skill. I cannot defeat him at this rate…

In front of him, Mikieru assumed another attacking stance—Redeemer in left hand, a crackling ball of Holy Light in his right. Garrione had no doubt that Mikieru would score another hit if they faced off now—and this time, there was no telling the hit would not be fatal if Mikieru willed it to be.

Garrione raised Sinjustice in front of his face and looked through its hilt. “I do not have time for this,” he muttered.

Mikieru squinted, looking at Garrione’s familiar pose.

Napalm, Mikieru thought quickly. I am fast enough to outrun it. When I attack when Garrione opens his mouth…

Garrione’s mouth opened to utter the Napalm incantation. At that instant, Mikieru charged forward, carried by his Blessing-enhanced speed.

“It is OVER!” Mikieru yelled.

The Cleric sprinted towards Garrione with incredible speed, the Redeemer and a fully-charged Holy Light orb poised to strike.

While uttering the incantation, Garrione opened his eyes and looked straight ahead—past the approaching Cleric. Mikieru’s eyes widened when he felt the violent swirling of mana that accompanied with every Napalm spell, realizing that it wasn’t centered in front of him…

…it was focused at a point a good distance behind him.

He is aiming at Jared! Mikieru thought madly. But HOW? He is outside Garrione’s range!

Instantly, Mikieru shot his foot forward and skidded low on the stone floor, violently flinging his arms and throwing both the Holy Light orb and the Redeemer towards Garrione’s inanimate form. The Cleric did not even wait to see if he hit the Knight-Mage—he immediately spun and sprinted towards Jared.

Garrione ducked, avoiding the long mace and crackling ball of antimatter as they passed over his head, never once taking his eyes off of Jared.

“JARED!” Mikieru screamed.

The Merchant's eyes widened as he watched Mikieru run towards him, both fists clenched on his chest. A moment later, Garrione completed the incantation, swung Sinjustice in circles, and shouted out the name of the spell as he threw the flaming blade downward:

“FIRE WALL!”

Mikieru reached Jared and turned around just as a huge fireball exploded around the two of them. Garrione took a step backward, looking away from the glare of the orange pillars of flame that rose towards the sky.

• • •

Within her own prison of flame, Napolde felt the ethereal indications of another Fire Wall spell cast—and she sensed it was cast at Jared. She tried to scream his name, only to cough violently from the thick black smoke.

• • •

When the original blast of fire weakened to a steady roar, the flames shortened enough to reveal Mikieru and Jared. Garrione smirked, truly amused by what he saw.

The Cleric was down on one knee, both his arms extended to his sides. His hands were open in a splayed manner, desperately holding onto two simultaneous Kyrie Eleison spells. This was an advanced application of the Kyrie Eleison defensive spell—to cast two of the clear shields together at the same time to form a formidable barrier that could deflect even magical energy to a certain extent. While the sphere shield managed to protect them from the ring of flame, holding it in place for longer than a few moments required a great deal of strength and mana—if Mikieru was anyone else, he would have succumbed to the exertion and released the spell prematurely, killing himself and Jared instantly.

Mikieru was gasping for air. “What is this?” he spat. The flames surrounding them continued to roar with frightening intensity.

Garrione laughed, knowing that he had pinned Mikieru in one place. “You are a formidable foe, Kitsune,” he admitted. “If you did not throw your weapon and that Holy Light spell at me, I might have been able to finish the incantations one second sooner, and you and Jared would have been the first to taste my justice. But, it seems, you are intent to avoid your judgment to your last breath.”

Mikieru winced as a small portion of the transparent sphere shield began to crack from the intense heat.

“Mike!” Jared yelled, groping in vain into his bags for anything to help the Cleric. “Hang in there!”

Garrione laughed again, hearing Jared’s words. “Yes, indeed,” he mocked. “Hang in there for as long as you can. Sinjustice’s Fire Wall lasts fifteen minutes. Do you think your little protection spell can last as long?”

Mikieru bared his teeth defiantly, sweat dripping off his face while he watched Garrione raise Sinjustice once more.

Garrione’s smile faded. He was about to summon another malevolent spell that would without a doubt finish off the Cleric and the Merchant, yet he simply allowed himself to look at the two for a moment longer.

The three old friends maintained their stares at each other for a few moments, as if the situation was a stalemate when it actually wasn’t.

The Knight-Mage sighed in resignation, raising Sinjustice above his head.

“Goodbye, my friends,” he muttered. “Your cowardice has become your undoing. I truly wish it did not have to end this way.”

Mikieru and Jared looked on helplessly as Garrione gathered mana—and flames—into Sinjustice. In another moment, Garrione would complete the incantation for Sinjustice’s most potent spell yet…

• • •

“The coward threatens when he is safe!”

Imprisoned in her cage of fire, Napolde still managed to hear the voice of challenge—and she opened her eyes in time to see, past the flames that snapped around her, a boy jump over the mobs of bewildered Occultists and her two trapped rescuers.

Garrione stopped in mid-sentence of his incantation, caught off-guard by the shrill, out-of-place voice that jabbed sharply at his repute. He opened his eyes in time to see the form of a young boy, seemingly to just have fallen from the sky, land on his feet in front of Mikieru and Jared.

Likewise, the Cleric and the Merchant stared at the youth who had leapt over their heads from behind and was now slowly getting to his feet, facing the Knight-Mage across the Clock Tower square.

“No,” Mikieru whispered in disbelief.

“You desire justice?” the boy challenged the Knight-Mage. “Deal with the victim.”

At once, Jared recognized the boy. The Merchant did not need to see the tan on his skin or the blue hair on his head—his voice and his fiery demeanor was all Jared needed.

Garrione looked on with noticeable incredulity at the form of the boy, forebodingly silhouetted by the tongues of flame that enveloped Mikieru and Jared behind him. The fire threw long black shadows that danced in front of the boy’s feet, making him seem larger and more intimidating than he truly was.

“What is this?” Garrione demanded to know. “Who addresses me?”

The boy glared at the Knight-Mage with intense gray eyes as he gave his answer.

“My name is Shin-ju Yang,” the Nomad boy answered. “And justice is to be had today, not by you… but by me.”

“You dare?” Garrione fumed, pointing Sinjustice at Shin-ju. “Ah, but I do recognize you. You are Kitsune’s protégé, yes? How wonderfully mad of you. Do you truly believe an insignificant worm like yourself can stop me? You will have no victory here, Shin-ju Yang, not when I am so close to achieving my purpose!”

Mikieru lurched forward and screamed. “Shin-ju! Do not do this! He will kill you if you fight him!”

Hearing Mikieru’s words, Shin-ju’s visage softened. He lowered his head, allowing his blue hair to fall over his eyes. He was silent for a moment, as if sorting his emotions before airing his side.

“I’m dead,” Shin-ju muttered, only loud enough to be heard by Mikieru and Jared. “Or dying, it doesn’t matter. Who’s to say I didn’t die three years ago in that forsaken wasteland of Sograt? What I intend to do right now is to get my answers… from you, Senpai. Then, if I die by his sword, I’ll take comfort from the fact that my death this time around has more purpose than the death I went through three years past.”

Mikieru listened to Shin-ju, only to shake his head slightly after. “Shin-ju, what are you saying?”

Shin-ju looked over his shoulder, and the Cleric saw the boy’s gray eyes staring straight into his.

“Hold on to the Kyrie Eleison shield for as long as you can, Senpai,” Shin-ju answered coldly. “I have questions for you.”

Mikieru and Jared stared at Shin-ju, mystified and taken aback by the boy’s order. They said nothing, even as Shin-ju turned back to Garrione and began taking steps towards the Knight-Mage.

“Garrione!” Shin-ju yelled. “Release them… all three of them… or I will make you.”

A smirk escaped the Knight-Mage’s lips, and he began laughing openly. “You?” he guffawed. “You will make me? You are as audacious as your vaunted Master, Shin-ju Yang, and maybe twice as deluded. Very well, then… make me, Shin-ju Yang. Who am I to deny you of your death-wish?”

Garrione began walking towards Shin-ju as well. “I will get my justice… and the Stone… this day.”

Then they stopped. The Knight-Mage raised Sinjustice, and flames roared to life along its long, black blade.

Shin-ju raised his clenched fists in a bare-handed fighting stance, and a bluish-white glow slowly emanated from his body as his Blessing trance came into effect.

It was only a few seconds before the battle between the Knight-Mage and the Cleric’s Apprentice began.

• • •

End of Chapter Ten

[Mikey]

Chapter Eleven
The Cleric’s Apprentice

Garrione intended to take no chances. He had heard bits of information about his young opponent—first by a seemingly unassuming report by one of his majors in Prontera that a Nomad boy managed to defend himself against two extorting Occultists, then by the news that Jared Wycrow had evaded his captain Sarth and his swordsmen with the aid of a certain Nomad boy—and finally with the knowledge that Mikieru and Jared traveled from Prontera to Payon and managed to thwart an assassination attempt, again with a Nomad boy’s assistance.

But who was this boy? At first Garrione was tempted to dismiss Shin-ju’s involvement with Mikieru and Jared as consequential, yet here he was—standing in the way of his plans yet again. Now, for the first time, the Knight-Mage entertained the idea that there was truly something special about this boy—and he was to take no chances in this battle.

Expectedly, Shin-ju was the first to attack—he knew that he had fifteen minutes to somehow break Sinjustice’s hold over the Fire Walls that surrounded Napolde, Mikieru, and Jared. The boy pushed off the ground, leaving a rising swirl of dust in his original position as his Blessing trance propelled him towards the Knight Mage.

As soon as Shin-ju came within range, Garrione raised Sinjustice and summoned a Napalm spell.

Shin-ju noticed the familiar swirling of air and mana that he encountered during his fight with Sarth, and immediately put on a burst of speed, ripping through the air towards Garrione as the Napalm fireball exploded behind him.

“Just like your Master,” Garrione muttered, lowering his sword in a fighting stance. As Shin-ju flew towards him, a fist drawn back, Garrione spun on his feet once and threw a horizontal backhand slash aimed to cleave the boy in the midsection.

The flaming sword met nothing but air—Shin-ju had feigned leaping towards Garrione’s face and instead skidded off towards the Knight-Mage’s side. Garrione grunted in mild surprise.

His shoes skidding on the cobblestone pavement, Shin-ju immediately turned towards Garrione and swung his foot inward, slamming its instep behind Garrione’s knee. The Knight-Mage almost lost his balance, but was in no trouble since Shin-ju’s own speed carried the boy away from him.

Garrione snorted in amusement as he got back onto two feet, turning to face Shin-ju again. The boy was testing him, trying to ascertain the moves he was capable of.

“Do you really have time to play with me, Shin-ju Yang?” Garrione mocked. “Napolde dies a little more with each moment that you delay.”

As if spurred by this challenge, Shin-ju got up and darted towards Garrione again. This time, the Knight-Mage waited for Shin-ju’s attack to come. He was not about to waste his power over an insolent little Nomad such as this.

The Nomad boy evaded Sinjustice’s blade once more as it swung over his head, and he leaped up to throw a punch at the Knight-Mage’s jaw.

Garrione’s gauntleted hand reached up and caught Shin-ju’s Blessing-enhanced fist effortlessly—the boy gasped!

Grinning deviously, Garrione threw the same hand forward, slamming a metal-clad fist into Shin-ju’s temple. The Nomad boy let loose an expression of pain as he flew several feet backwards, landing violently on his back. He rolled only once before hastily jumping up to his feet—he knew that the Knight-Mage would follow through. Sure enough, Garrione was in the air, Sinjustice raised high above his head.

MAGNUM BREAK!

Shin-ju managed to avoid the blade as it came down, but he wasn’t fast enough to escape the wall of flame that expanded outwards after. Another audible shriek of pain was heard from him as he fell backwards.

As soon as the fireball dissipated, Garrione raised Sinjustice again and summoned Napalm. This time, the spell met its mark.

• • •

“Shin-ju!” Jared yelled.

Mikieru shook his head. “He cannot win,” he said dismally. “Garrione is much too merciless.”

Another portion of Mikieru’s Kyrie Eleison sphere began to crack under the heat of the Fire Wall.

• • •

“You were a fool to challenge me,” Garrione laughed loudly. “Your Master could not defeat me. What deludes you into thinking that you will succeed where he has failed?”

“Sh… shut up…” Shin-ju answered, only loudly enough to be heard by the Knight-Mage. He got up on all fours, smoke rising from the burnt fabrics of his jacket.

Garrione turned to look towards the direction of Mikieru and Jared, issuing another challenge. “Now, Wycrow!” he yelled. “The Stone will save yourself, Napolde, Kitsune… and now him!”

Jared shuddered at this ultimatum. Mikieru only shook his head—he did not need to tell the Merchant one more time.

“I’m… not… DEAD YET!” Shin-ju screamed, blindly jumping to his feet and rushing towards Garrione in a frenzy. The Knight-Mage turned back to the boy, grinning evilly as Shin-ju’s flying punch swung in one more time.

Garrione dodged and planted a rising knee into the incoming boy’s midsection. Shin-ju grunted loudly.

Then, while the boy was still in mid-air, Garrione threw his arms down, slamming the hilt of Sinjustice down onto Shin-ju’s back. Shin-ju fell heavily on the pavement, coughing once, before Garrione kicked him in the midsection and sent him flying backwards again.

Shin-ju’s stricken body rolled on the ground away from Garrione like a limp rag doll. He lay still for a moment, truly unable to move from the pain.

“See this, Wycrow,” the Knight-Mage called again. “How many more friends must you throw in front of you before you give me what I seek?”

• • •

With all her might, Napolde lifted a sleeve of her silk robe over her mouth and tried to breathe. She had heard the words of Garrione and another voice that she did not recognize. She had to see the one who had come at the last moment to spare them from an immediate death.

She got to her feet, and through teary red eyes she looked past the flames surrounding her. Garrione was standing tall and proud, his flaming blade raised high to deliver a deathblow to a blue-haired Nomad boy on the ground.

• • •

“You are a coward, Garrione!” Jared yelled helplessly. “This is not fair!”

The Knight-Mage did not hear Jared’s insult. His gaze was instead fixed on Shin-ju as the boy tried to get up once more.

This boy is resilient, Garrione thought as he walked towards the boy’s faltering form. In addition to his advanced Holy Art skill knowledge, he also exhibits a daring uncommon to his age.

Garrione pointed Sinjustice at Shin-ju and looked at Jared, issuing his final warning. “This is your last chance, Wycrow. Give me the Stone, or this boy is dead… and you will follow.”

This time, Jared could not convince himself to refuse. His hand shot into his pocket and drew out a small, three-faced gray rock. He raised it in the air and was about to shout his surrender to Garrione when:

”NO!”

Shin-ju shot to his feet, wobbling on his heels for a few moments. “No, Jared,” he said. “I’m not done.”

Garrione turned back to Shin-ju, a look of deep annoyance in his eyes. “You are truly insulting,” Garrione commented. “I wanted to find out more about you, Shin-ju Yang, believe me I did. But now I simply wish to kill you. You have wasted enough of my time.”

Shin-ju made an attempt to attack, but faltered in mid-step and fell to one knee. His Blessing trance was fading.

The Knight-Mage raised Sinjustice one last time. “Goodbye, devil.”

Garrione threw the flaming blade down at the boy.

MAGNUM BREAK!

“Shin-ju, NO!” Jared screamed, blinded by the fireball that expanded around Garrione.

• • •

Less than a moment after Sinjustice struck the ground, Garrione struggled to recover. He felt as though he had hit nothing besides the cobblestone pavement—and sure enough, as the glare and fireball dissipated, there was nothing in Shin-ju’s position save for a blackened crater caused by his sword.

Damn! Garrione thought, pulling Sinjustice free from the ground. He escaped!

At that moment, Shin-ju fell from the sky and landed behind Garrione’s hunched form. The Knight-Mage, wide-eyed, turned his head to look at the Nomad boy.

Shin-ju had leaped high over the Magnum Break fireball and landed just as the fireball dissipated!

His lanky arms spread like wings, Shin-ju leaped, twisted 540 degrees in mid-air, and slammed a flying roundhouse kick into the back of Garrione’s unprotected head. The Knight-Mage grunted in pain and tipped sideways as he hurriedly got up to his feet.

Shin-ju quickly landed on the ground and assumed a low defensive fighting stance, timing Garrione’s hasty counter-attack perfectly. As the Knight-Mage’s wild backhand slash came, Shin-ju lunged in, ducked under the blade, twisted on the sides of his feet, and landed a low spinning heel kick at the back of Garrione's right knee.

As Garrione’s right leg left the ground in recoil, Shin-ju completed his spin and threw his other leg forward, landing a sweeping roundhouse kick to the back of Garrione's left knee. The Knight-Mage grunted as he tipped backwards, his legs flying above his head.

Even Mikieru could not believe his own eyes when he saw Shin-ju’s next move. As Garrione’s body descended towards the ground, the boy planted his hand on the pavement and pushed off the ground with his feet, doing an incredibly taut one-handed handstand. His back was arched backward like a bow, his feet straight, toes pointing skyward. Then, instantly, Shin-ju’s hand left the ground, and the boy coiled inwards furiously like a stretched metal spring in violent recoil. Mikieru saw the boy execute two somersaults—or three, Shin-ju was moving too fast to tell—in mid-air before extending his extremities outward and burying a descending heel into Garrione’s navel just as the Knight-Mage crashed into the ground.

Garrione sputtered loudly, his eyes wide in pain. His extremities carelessly extended skyward in reflex, although his right hand still stubbornly gripped Sinjustice.

Shin-ju skidded away from Garrione in reaction to the somersault axe kick’s powerful recoil. As quickly as he could, he rolled onto one knee and prepared to attack again.

• • •

“I… I don’t believe it!” Jared sputtered, laughing incredulously. “He got him! He got Garrione!”

Mikieru nodded, grinning a bit. Good thinking, Shin-ju, he thought. Attack and get away. Hit him where his armor is weak. But in order to defeat him…

• • •

...I gotta disarm him, Shin-ju thought as he watched Garrione stiffly and angrily get up to his feet, Sinjustice still in his hands.

Garrione coughed and wiped spit from his lip. “Blue-haired monkey,” he cursed. “You just do not know when to quit.”

Garrione slowly raised Sinjustice in front of his face.

Shin-ju, thinking it was another Napalm spell, sprinted towards the vulnerable Knight-Mage once more. He abruptly stopped with a shock when he heard Garrione yell:

FIRE BOLT!

Shin-ju was frozen in his tracks. He was not aware of this particular spell! Blankly, he watched as several miniature fireballs blasted out of Sinjustice’s blade and flew towards him.

• • •

Oh no, Mikieru thought in horror. Shin-ju has no defense against this!

• • •

Jared screamed as Shin-ju instinctively ducked into a ball. There was nothing he could do as the fireballs flew into Shin-ju and exploded in several flashes of fiery light.

Garrione gasped and dropped his arms. Heaving, he tried to recover from the strain of casting the fire spells. The battle was wearing too long for him, and he was glad it was finally over.

Or so he thought.

Garrione’s smirk disappeared as the thick black smoke that billowed from Shin-ju’s position faded to reveal Fire Bolt’s damage.

The pavement was heaved up and blackened around the impact points, and hot smoke rose from a radius of three meters around Shin-ju—yet the boy was there, down on one knee, both arms outstretched, palms open.

The boy was surrounded by a sphere shield—translucent, but not murky enough to prevent Garrione from seeing Shin-ju’s gray eyes when they opened and shot yet another defiant glance at his own stare.

• • •

“Mike!” Jared gasped, noticing the similarity of the Cleric’s shield with Shin-ju’s. “That’s…”

“Kyrie Eleison Sphere Shield!” Mike exhaled in awe. “Shin-ju has just executed a Master-level Holy Art!”

• • •

Shin-ju’s entire frame was glowing brightly with the Blessing trance as he barreled through the Kyrie Sphere he had created, smashing through the shield as if it were glass. He flew towards Garrione in break-neck speed, his fists clenched and teeth bared.

Instinctively, Garrione raised Sinjustice in front of him in defense. Shin-ju saw this and knew exactly what to do.

Garrione let loose a grunt as Shin-ju planted one foot on Sinjustice’s hilt, then swept his other foot into the Knight-Mage’s gauntlets. Disbelievingly, Garrione looked on as the flaming sword came flying out of his fingers, flying to the side and embedding its blade into one of the Clock Tower’s cobblestone steps with a loud clang. The flames on its black blade soon died down.

Landing on the ground, Shin-ju unleashed a ferocious barrage of punches and kicks at Garrione. The unarmed Knight-Mage moved steadily backwards in defense, desperately parrying the unstoppable tide of bare-handed attacks from the Nomad boy. It was only a matter of seconds before Shin-ju saw an opening, and he immediately threw a turning back kick that connected into Garrione’s throat.

As Garrione staggered backwards, clutching his neck, Shin-ju leaped backwards and slammed a flash kick under the Knight-Mage’s chin. A dazed Garrione still kept on his feet.

“EAT THIS!” Shin-ju yelled as he completed his reverse somersault. He immediately lunged at Garrione, drew his right arm back, and buried the long-overdue flying punch between the Knight-Mage’s eyes.

• • •

Jared whooped in elation as Shin-ju got the upper hand. While the Merchant celebrated, Mikieru shot an alarmed glance at the flames that roared outside his sphere shield. Even with Garrione and Sinjustice separated, the fire burned on.

Could it be? Mikieru thought. Sinjustice does not control these flames…

The Cleric looked up again, trying to spot Shin-ju through the tongues of flame that danced just beyond his palms.

I hope that does not mean Shin-ju will have to kill Garrione to save us… Mikieru worried.

• • •

As soon as a dazed Garrione got to his feet, the Knight-Mage suddenly felt a forearm clamp across his throat and another push his head forward. Then he felt a pair of legs wrap around his torso from behind. Feebly, Garrione clawed behind him as Shin-ju locked a tight chokehold and began to cut the Knight-Mage’s breathing.

• • •

“YEAH!” Jared yelled. “He got him! Awright, Shin-ju!”

• • •

Garrione thrashed around on his feet, trying to throw the Nomad boy off his back—but Shin-ju had locked the chokehold in so tightly that he was immovable. Desperately, Garrione tried to pry Shin-ju’s forearm from his throat.

“Break it, Garrione,” Shin-ju warned. “Break the Fire Walls now…”

Garrione choked, coughing. The Fire Walls around Mikieru, Jared and Napolde roared on.

“Break the Fire Walls, or I’ll break your neck!” Shin-ju yelled.

• • •

Mikieru gasped for air. Jared glanced at him in a worried shock. The Cleric was obviously reaching his limit.

• • •

“Never,” the Knight-Mage choked out.

“What?” Shin-ju yelled, stunned.

Suddenly Shin-ju felt white-hot heat rising towards his body. Looking down, he was horrified to see that Garrione’s body was catching fire—and setting fire to his own!

The Nomad boy screamed in pain, letting go of Garrione’s neck and instinctively jumping off the Knight-Mage’s back. Garrione’s fist flew backwards and caught Shin-ju in the side of the face, launching the boy several meters away from him.

• • •

“No!” Napolde managed to scream.

• • •

“Shin-ju!” Jared yelled, horrified by the turn of events.

Mikieru looked on in disbelief. Damnation, he thought.

• • •

Shin-ju quivered and painfully lifted his head off the pavement. With one eye swollen half-closed, he looked at Garrione.

The Knight-Mage was breathing heavily, a full malicious smile on his face. His eyes were murderously set on Shin-ju’s own. Flames enveloped his body and leaped upwards, silhouetting his huge dark form as he took the first step towards the Nomad boy.

The Occultists who were watching made sounds of awe as they watched their leader’s true powers emerge.

• • •

“Mike, what the hell’s going on?” Jared asked wildly. “What’s happening to Garrione?”

Mikieru cringed as Garrione, engulfed in a coat of fire, walk towards a fallen Shin-ju.

“Ars Magna,” the Cleric said, recognizing the Knight-Mage’s defensive spell. “It is a Sorcerer’s fire shield spell. It renders the spellcaster immune to fire, and at the same time manipulates the air around the body to form flames. It is a Master-level Arcane Art, and few Humans have the mental fortitude to control it…”

“But Garrione’s a Knight!” Jared yelled.

“Yes…” Mikieru answered. “As such he is supposedly forbidden from touching the Arcane Arts… but apparently he has managed to learn the Art of Fire… but from whom?”

The Cleric shook his head dismally as he tried to hold on to the Kyrie Eleison Sphere Shield for as long as he could. “This is not good,” he said, his eyes on Shin-ju as the boy struggled to get up. “Shin-ju does not have any ranged attacks or techniques. If he attacks Garrione head-on, it would be suicide.”

Jared turned to look at the battlegrounds one more time, despair on his face. “Shin-ju…” he muttered.

• • •

“How could a worthless Nomad child such as you… waste so much of my time and require so much of my power to STOP?” Garrione asked, raising a flaming hand in question. “Your idiot Master did not force me to use most of my techniques, despite him being the true enemy of me and my ideals.”

Shin-ju wobbled to his feet.

“You insult me,” Garrione declared.

Shin-ju looked up in time to see Garrione’s flaming fist fly towards his face. He ducked, evading the fist by inches, but Shin-ju couldn’t avoid Garrione’s other fist as it buried itself into his midsection.

“You insult justice!”

The Nomad boy grunted in pain.

“Those victims… will not have died in vain!” Garrione yelled, smashing an uppercut into Shin-ju’s bowed head.

Shin-ju flew backwards again, tumbling on the stone ground before lying limp.

Garrione’s furious expression slowly faded as he watched, one more time, Shin-ju quiver into motion and try to push himself off the ground.

The boy coughed, spitting up blood onto the cobblestones. He was in pain, and yet he persisted. In spite of himself and all he believed in, Garrione found the boy’s spirit moving.

• • •

“Why do you persist, Shin-ju Yang?” Garrione asked, his tone calmer than before. “I can think of only one reason… that you thirst for the same thing that I do. You seek justice for the wrong done unto you… during the Frontier War.”

Shin-ju froze when he heard this, his eyes still on the blood he had spit up.

“I am right, am I not?” Garrione continued. “You are a White Nomad, innocent and unknowing, falling unjustly to the treachery of your Black Nomad masters and Northfolk saviors.”

The Nomad boy slowly raised his head to look at Garrione.

“Do not be surprised,” the Knight-Mage went on. “I heard what you said to your Master before we battled. You said you had died in Sograt… and you believe it was your Master who had done it all.”

Shin-ju stared at Garrione for a moment, wide-eyed, before turning to look at the direction of Mikieru. The Cleric was looking in his direction as well—albeit with lowered eyes and a face turned slightly away.

Garrione sighed, looking at the flames that enveloped his body. So much fire, he thought. Just like those dark days…

“You know this as well as I do, Kitsune,” the Knight-Mage continued, closing his eyes. “What I speak of is known to both of us… and to this boy.”

• • •

The distant firelight reflected dimly in their eyes as the two Field Captains surveyed the scene that lay at the foot of the hill they were standing on.

“I don’t like this at all,” the larger one, who wore heavy Knight’s armor, whispered. “The Majors ought to know better than to rely on vague intelligence reports…”

His companion, who wore a long black coat over chain-mail armor, shook his head in agreement. “I do not like it any more than you do,” he whispered back. “But orders are orders.”

“This isn’t right, Mikieru,” the first one shot back. “We can’t go through with this!”

“We do not have a choice, Garrione,” Mikieru answered. “If the village is indeed an Assassin staging point as reported, tomorrow’s rescue push towards Antioc will be compromised to failure. You know this as well as I do.”

At that, Garrione had no answer. The Knight turned his eyes back to the campfires in the village below them. Desert nights were as cold as ice and as dark as pitch.

“The men are ready,” the Cleric said nonchalantly.

Garrione nodded. “Why do I have the feeling that we’re going to regret this,” he muttered as he prepared to give the signal to attack.

“We most probably will,” Mikieru said, raising his own hand. “I only pray that every death that happens here tonight will save two tomorrow.”

The two Field Captains waited until they could wait no longer, and their hands dropped in unison.

A pandemonium followed as two platoons of Knights stormed down the hillside, weapons and torches raised. The Nomads in the village were caught by surprise, but hastened nonetheless to arm themselves against the intruders. The Nomads fought hopelessly as they were hacked down one by one. Soon, huts were on fire.

Mikieru hated these midnight raids with a passion. Nomad Raiders, Rogues and Assassins shamefully assembled in desert military camps that, seen from afar, looked like friendly, harmless villages. After a few of Prontera’s platoons were massacred after camping near such villages, Mikieru’s superiors began ordering the remaining platoons to search and destroy all suspicious villages in their advance. While some of the raids had proven legitimate, others had not.

The Cleric pressed on the attack, until the burning huts illuminated the village enough to reveal something that he had not seen before.

A White Nomad woman was bawling, clutching her little daughter’s bloodied body to hers.

God, what have I done? Mikieru thought madly, throwing his arm into the air.

“Cease attack! CEASE ATTACK!” he yelled frantically. “Village is friendly! CEASE ATTACK!”

The Knights stopped in their tracks, horrified. The intelligence reports were faulty. Their Majors were wrong. The raid was illegitimate. And innocent White Nomads were dead.

Garrione cursed loudly before calling the Medics down from the hill. Then he started bellowing orders to his Knights, instructing them to help the wounded and douse the fires they had criminally caused.

Mikieru’s arms hung limp, the Redeemer falling from his fingers. The Cleric fell to his knees. He closed his eyes and lifted his head to the heavens, angrily admonishing himself and meekly asking for forgiveness that he knew he would never deserve.

“Damn it!” Garrione yelled loudly, flinging his Claymore into the darkness. “Damnation to our Majors! This is all their fault!”

Garrione took off his helmet, threw it to the ground, and kicked it into the air in fury.

“Kitsune! We are innocent of the blood of these Nomads!” Garrione shouted at a kneeling Kitsune across the camp.

Mikieru eyes were still closed, his face raised to the black sky.

“We are not the ones at fault, Kitsune! Stand with me!”

Mikieru did not move, even as White Nomads rushed out of their huts brandishing weapons that were actually farming implements.

“KIT—SU—NE!” Garrione screamed one last time.

Mikieru opened his eyes to the sound of an angry Nomad screaming. The man, who was apparently the dead child’s father, rushed towards the Cleric. There were tears in the man’s eyes, and his fingers were gripped tightly around the shaft of an axe that was used for chopping firewood.

At that moment, Mikieru knew that he wasn’t only going to regret this night—but his entire involvement in this War would forever scar his soul and remove any possibility of solace…

The dull, worn axe came down…

• • •

Mikieru said nothing as Garrione told their story.

“You do remember,” the Knight-Mage finished quietly, eyeing Mikieru. “Don’t you.”

Mikieru did not answer, prompting Garrione to turn back to Shin-ju. The boy was still on the ground, his hands and knees on the pavement. Shin-ju’s head was bowed, his strange blue hair hiding any expression on his face.

“Your Master will not give you any answers, Shin-ju Yang,” the Knight-Mage declared. “He will refuse to realize that it was not our fault all those years back… a coward in the highest extreme. He will not fight for you. He will not fight for your murdered kin. I, on the other hand, will.”

Mikieru looked up, angered by this audacious statement.

“We seek the same thing,” Garrione continued. “To kill you now would be pointless. I instead offer you a proposition.”

“Garrione!” Mikieru yelled furiously, fully knowing what Garrione was up to.

“Come with me,” the Knight-Mage offered, ignoring Mikieru’s screams. “Join me, Shin-ju Yang, and be my Apprentice. If you truly know what your heart yearns for, what this world begs for… join me.”

• • •

“You had a choice.”

Garrione frowned at Shin-ju’s answer. “Unh?”

“A choice was laid before you that night,” Shin-ju answered, slowly shuffling to his feet. “Both of you. Garrione, Senpai… you could have chosen not to raze that village. And you both made… the wrong choice.”

Garrione’s eyes narrowed at this. Behind him, Mikieru’s own eyes widened.

“But do you know the difference between you and Senpai, Garrione? He chose to take responsibility… while you pinned the blame on others. Ask me, I dare you, which consequence was the nobler.”

Garrione bared his teeth slightly.

“A person who refuses to take responsibility for his actions… that is a coward. That is what I hate the most.”

The Knight-Mage raised an eyebrow as he saw Shin-ju reach into his pocket and draw something out.

“Burn me, crush me, mutilate me if you must,” the boy warned as he slipped something around his right wrist. “But if you ever call Mikieru Makimachi a coward again…”

Shin-ju raised his right hand in the air, and dropped a cautioning finger at Garrione as he shot a fiery gray stare into the Knight-Mage’s eyes.

“…I’ll kill you.”

• • •

Jared’s eyes widened in amazement, and Mikieru gaped disbelievingly, as they saw what Shin-ju had taken out of his pocket and worn around his wrist.

It was the Acolyte’s Rosary.

“Shin-ju…” Mikieru managed to mutter, truly affected.

• • •

“Hmph,” Garrione snorted angrily, holding Shin-ju’s gaze. He raised a flaming gauntleted hand to one side—in the direction of Sinjustice—and incredibly, the large black sword quivered from the Clock Tower’s cobblestone steps. Sinjustice broke from the rocks with a loud crash and flew unerringly back to Garrione’s hand. Flames returned to its black blade as soon as the Knight-Mage’s fingers tightened around its hilt, and Garrione raised it in front of him, its fiery tip pointed towards Shin-ju’s battered, defiant form.

“I should have known it was a waste of time talking to fools such as you,” the Knight-Mage taunted, the flames around him leaping wildly in his fury. “It is because of you that these injustices exist in Midgard, and as the pillar of strength of its victims, I will destroy you. Your faith ends now…”

Garrione raised Sinjustice high up in the air. The flames around him erupted violently and loudly as he screamed:

“…AND YOUR PITIFUL EXISTENCE WITH IT!”

• • •

Undaunted by the pillar of flame that rose into the sky, Shin-ju closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was it. His last chance. His spiritual energy was on the brink of nothingness. If he failed to stop Garrione now, he, Mikieru, Jared, and Napolde… and soon after, countless others… would die.

He opened his eyes and set one foot in front of him. He assumed a passive defensive stance, his side to Garrione, and hung his arms at his sides. Then he opened both his hands.

Shin-ju knew that Garrione was about to use Sinjustice’s ultimate technique… and he was about to meet it with his own.

• • •

“Mike!” Jared gasped, pointing at Shin-ju. “Is that… Holy Light?”

Mikieru knotted his eyebrows in puzzlement, his eyes on two balls of white light that appeared under Shin-ju’s palms.

“No,” came Mikieru’s mystified answer. “The Holy Light spell draws directly from the caster’s spiritual energy, which is malevolent if not controlled properly. Holy Light’s nature is supposed to vigorously pulsate with power, but… those orbs under Shin-ju’s hands are almost like… pearls…”

Mikieru’s eyes widened when he said that last word, a stunning realization suddenly coming to him. He knew the Payonese word for “pearl.” It was…

• • •

…shinju…

• • •

End of Chapter Eleven

This post has been edited by Mikey: Oct 22 2006, 10:43 PM

[Mikey]

Chapter Twelve
A Greater Courage

Mikieru stared on from behind his weakening Kyrie Eleison Sphere Shield, stunned by his realization. For the first time, he entertained the notion that “Shin-ju” was in fact not Shin-ju’s real name—he had been thinking for a long time that the name sounded too Payonese for a Nomad. The knowledge that Shin-ju was hiding something compounded onto his apprehensions of the moment at hand, when Shin-ju and Garrione were about to unleash their most powerful techniques at each other.

Jared likewise watched the events that unfolded in front of them with bated breath. He gripped the Stone tightly within his fingers, knowing that this fiasco had gone for far too long—and everything that had been building up for the past month was about to come to a cataclysmic conclusion in only a matter of seconds.

• • •

Napolde squinted through the flames that snapped around her, her green eyes fixed intently on Shin-ju’s defiant form. Her strength was fading fast from lack of air, but she was determined to live long enough to see the outcome of this final clash—and whether or not this Nomad boy… this stranger… would indeed succeed in stopping the madman he was standing up against.

• • •

The Occultists watching the battle bared their teeth in anticipation, all their hopes pinned on their leader. None of them expected Garrione to take this long in putting Shin-ju away, yet no one doubted either that their victory was but only moments away.

• • •

Garrione’s dark form, engulfed in a towering pillar of flame, shrunk in Shin-ju’s cone of vision. As the boy channeled his special, subtle energy into the spheres below his hands, he carefully took notice of the flames that leaped beyond the Knight-Mage’s position, rising from the roofs of Al de Baran’s hovels.

The burning villages.

It was all Shin-ju needed to see to finally realize what he needed to do against this maddened Knight-Mage—and he had no doubt that Garrione felt the same as he did.

This will be over soon.

• • •

This will be over soon.

Garrione convinced himself that it would. The battle had worn far too long, but it was about to come to an end. His final technique was one that assured the target no known escape.

“I am glad to have fought you, Shin-ju Yang!” Garrione yelled as the energies channeled through Sinjustice reached their peaks. “You have convinced me beyond any doubt that I WILL NOT BE STOPPED!”

Suddenly the ground at Shin-ju’s feet shook violently, and the shocked boy struggled to keep his balance. He kept his gaze fixed upon Garrione even as the Knight-Mage invoked the catalyst for Sinjustice’s ultimate spell:

“NINE PILLARS OF FIRE!”

Instantly, nine leaping pillars of fire and molten rock blasted from the ground around Shin-ju. Then, almost as soon as they surfaced, the nine massive pillars converged downward and met at the boy’s position with a colossal explosion that rocked the entirety of the Al de Baran mountainside for several moments.

The explosions and ensuing tremors knocked Garrione backward. The Knight-Mage was too preoccupied on keeping his eye on the magnificent manifestation of the Nine Pillars that he almost did not notice a flash of bluish-white light that had whisked past him—before the first of the explosions came.

“What the--?” Garrione spat, suddenly realizing that the flash of light had moved beside him—and had taken the form of a lanky Nomad boy.

Amidst the shockwave of dust, smoke, and debris, Shin-ju had reappeared at Garrione’s weak side—and he was unharmed.

Mikieru, Jared, and Napolde saw that moment clearly—Shin-ju was alive, having somehow evaded the incredible fury of the Nine Pillars Of Fire. He was in a squatting stance, both feet on the ground, with one leg extended and the other bent, as though he was violently skidding to a halt. Both arms were extended behind him, and his palms were open—but only one of the “pearls” remained visible under his right hand.

“Impossible!” Garrione screamed, shuffling too late to defend himself.

Shin-ju clenched his right fist—and the “pearl” immediately engulfed his fist and forearm with a pulsating reddish-white light. The boy bared his teeth as he flung his entire right side forward, slamming his glowing fist on Sinjustice’s flat side and pinning the flaming sword against Garrione’s full-plate armor.

• • •

Shin-ju had always been mystified and angered by his strange gift, even as a child. No one could explain to him what it was—not even the Priestess caretaker of the orphanage where he stayed—and yet evil people were after it—or him, he never found out which. Despite the nagging thought that it might have caused him the single greatest tragedy in his life, survival in the wilderness forced him to develop and use it.

At first, Shin-ju thought the orbs of energy that he could channel through his hands were useless, until he realized that matter seemed to be repelled by their emanations. Further investigation during his desert wanderings enabled him to discover some hidden abilities associated with the strange balls of mana—one of which was to “inhale” the energy to drastically increase his speed for a split-second (and give the impression of disappearing from his original position and reappearing at a different spot up to sixty meters away), and another one of which was to violently release its compressed energies in a bare-handed attack capable of denting even the hardest desert rock.

• • •

Shin-ju smiled madly at the moment of his fist’s impact, realizing that he had never come up with a name for this attack. Seeing the look of immeasurable shock on Garrione’s face, and knowing that the same look was reflected on the faces of all other Occultists watching his move’s execution, Shin-ju yelled as he reached the achievement of his ultimate technique:

“THIS IS OCCULT IMPACT!”

The Knight-Mage roared as Shin-ju’s punch produced a force much greater than was humanly possible, shattering Sinjustice’s black blade and Garrione’s plate mail armor into shards. Garrione flew backwards in astounding speed, bits and pieces of metal trailing his uncontrollable flight as he hurtled towards the Clock Tower.

Garrione’s huge frame crashed through the Clock Tower’s solid oak doors and—to the disbelief of the onlookers—barreled through its central stone supports. Everyone in Al de Baran’s Clock Tower square watched incredulously as the ancient Clock Tower tipped and crumbled down, accompanied by loud crushing sounds and violent tremors that rivaled those that came with the Nine Pillars Of Fire. Rocks, bricks, and masonry fell on top of Garrione—and the clock bell gave a loud, final toll as the room containing the clock mechanism fell on top of the smoldering mound of stone.

• • •

The Fire Wall that surrounded Mikieru and Jared finally died down into nothingness, and the Cleric released his hold on the Kyrie Eleison Sphere Shield. His eyes closed, he tipped forward and almost lost consciousness—but caught himself midway to the ground and managed to break his fall with his knee and hands. Jared did what he could to keep the Cleric’s head from hitting the pavement.

Together, the two friends caught their breaths. Mikieru shook his head as his eyes moved from the mound of crushed stone and masonry that used to be Al de Baran’s Clock Tower, to the pieces of twisted metal strewn on the battlegrounds, and finally to the form of his Apprentice, Shin-ju Yang—who, even as he had expended the last bit of his energy, still stubbornly remained on two feet.

• • •

Shin-ju breathed heavily, his body still in the follow-through of the phenomenal punch he had just delivered. He coughed, and his face contorted in a mighty effort to keep his eyes open. Pins and needles pricked his entire right side into numbness, and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before his body would succumb to its natural responses. He glanced behind him, and as soon as he realized that the Fire Walls had been broken, his knees gave way and his body pitched forward.

He did not feel his face hit the hard, dusty pavement. Instead, he felt his cheek fall onto something soft… and had the soothing, natural scent of pine that he liked very much. Two hands held him under his arms, breaking his fall with an embrace.

Napolde had caught him. The Elf held the boy’s head to her chest as she slowly went down to her knees.

Shin-ju opened his eyes and mustered the strength to look up into Napolde’s face. She was beautiful. The ethereal combination of her yellow hair, green eyes, and pointed ears gave Shin-ju a strange, foreign comfort.

“Thank you,” she whispered, tears in her eyes, “valiant one.”

• • •

A pair of gloved hands reached under Shin-ju’s half-conscious body, taking his weight off of Napolde’s arms. The Elf looked up into the green-and-blue stare of Mikieru, who smiled and nodded in greeting.

“I will take him, my Lady,” Mikieru said quietly. “Jared is waiting for you.”

Napolde’s green eyes widened at the sound of Jared’s name. Slowly, holding her breath, she turned her head to look to her side. Surely enough, there he was—Jared Wycrow, the Merchant, the chosen Keeper of the Stone—and he was walking towards her with a look of the greatest relief on his face.

The Elf broke into tears as she got to her feet and ran towards him—and they locked in the embrace that they have been longing for since they were separated for what seemed to be ages ago for the two of them.

• • •

“I love you,” Jared choked between sobs. “Oh God, I love you…”

• • •

Mikieru watched the couple with quiet satisfaction, knowing that their mission was a success, albeit unfinished. When he looked down at Shin-ju, he saw that the boy’s eyes were opened slightly, watching the reunion with curiosity and fulfillment.

“You did it,” Mikieru said.

Shin-ju swallowed, turning his eyes to the Cleric’s. “No,” he whispered. “We did it, Master.”

Mikieru stopped for a moment. Shin-ju had called him Master.

The Cleric remembered this same scene a few months before. Shin-ju had just rescued a girl from Prontera’s West Water Channel and was recuperating outside the hospital’s emergency entrance. Back then, the boy also had his head laid down on Mikieru’s lap—and that was when Mikieru had offered Shin-ju the Acolyte’s Rosary.

“Do you really think I’m capable of all that?” Shin-ju had asked.

The Cleric smiled. “So you are finally up to the challenge, Shin-ju?”

Shin-ju smiled back, raising his right hand and making a fist. “Bring it on,” he assented, his eyes moving to the Rosary on his wrist.

• • •

With Napolde held securely within his arms, Jared opened his teary eyes—and froze as he saw the ruins of the Clock Tower. He saw black smoke rising from gaps in the rubble, smoke that soon gave way to obvious orange flames.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

Mikieru looked up at those ominous words. Shattered stone and masonry began to fall off the ruined mound that used to be the Clock Tower.

“He’s… still alive?” Shin-ju asked, feebly making the attempt to roll over and stand up.

“Impossible,” Mikieru stated, shaking his head as the vibrations coming from within the ruins became stronger. “No one could have survived that…”

Napolde turned around to see what her three rescuers were staring at. She eyed the Clock Tower ruins fearfully as more flames sprouted from the cracks.

The rumblings increased in intensity, causing a low, steady crushing sound, until everyone beheld the frightening sight of a flaming arm clawing its way out of the rubble!

• • •

Jared held Napolde tightly as he instinctively stepped backwards. Shin-ju lay on his stomach, trying to push himself to his feet with his arms. Mikieru stayed down on one knee, exhausted from being forced to maintain his Sphere Shield for much longer than a few moments. All four of them watched in horror, as Garrione emerged from the rubble, alive—but changed.

The Knight-Mage’s irises were invisible. His eyes were empty white balls. His teeth were bared, and his hair was in shambles. His armor was falling off—melting from under the heat that emanated from his body—and flames leaped from his frame to heights much higher than when he invoked the Ars Magna spell. Garrione set his empty eyes onto the four friends, arched his back, and let loose a scream of rage that sounded like a gigantic, fully-fed blast furnace.

• • •

“Tch,” Mikieru spat helplessly, his eyes fixed on his old friend. He knew that this was particularly why study of the Arcane Arts were restricted to those willing to dedicate decades of theory and practice to it… and no one else. Garrione managed to learn all the spells and all the invocations, but he did not have the mental fortitude that could only have come from decades of grappling with the volatile Art. Ars Magna had consumed Garrione. The Knight-Mage was no longer Human—the Fire Shield spell had slipped his control and degenerated the once-great warrior into a mindless Fire Elemental.

The Cleric pushed himself to his feet. He knew that he had too little spiritual energy left. He would not be able to enter the Blessing Trance to take the monster down, and he would not be able to create another Kyrie Eleison Sphere Shield strong enough to deflect the attacks of magical fire that would surely come their way. But he had to try…

• • •

Napolde watched reluctantly as Garrione ambled closer, swinging a massive arm to decimate a still-standing stone column that stood in his way. Jared gripped her tightly, trying to pull her away from the scene. But she resisted, knowing that there was something she could do.

As she sensed the Knight-Mage gather flames into a huge fireball over his head, she immediately pushed Jared away and took a few steps toward Garrione.

“Napolde!” Jared yelled, running after her.

A flash of red-hot heat blasted from Garrione’s fireball, and the Merchant was knocked backward—but Napolde stayed on her feet, her hands clasped together in front of her chest.

• • •

Shin-ju and Mikieru looked on, stunned, as Napolde faced Garrione.

What is she doing? Mikieru asked himself.

• • •

Napolde’s lips moved in the utterance of a long-forgotten Elven incantation.

As one of the few remaining Elven Druids in Midgard, she had sworn an oath to the Goldraiders never to manifest her powers in the presence of Humans for fear of retaliation—the rumors that caused the downfall of the ancient Alchemist guild still prevailed over much of the continent. She was to keep her powers hidden to prevent the misguided anger and hatred from arising again, compromising her mission and the Goldraiders’ sworn duties.

But Napolde knew that this was necessary. The Stone and its Keeper was in danger—it was a risk she had to take.

• • •

Garrione let loose another blast-furnace bellow as he took a step forward and, with both hands, flung the massive ball of fire towards the four friends.

Mikieru’s eyes widened as he saw the size of the fireball barreling directly towards them. There was no escaping this!

• • •

As the fireball approached Napolde, the Elf finished her incantations and yelled the name of her power—a name the Human tongue could not pronounce—and her three friends moved backwards in shock as a gigantic column of rock smashed upwards through the pavement in front of them.

The fireball slammed into the summoned rock face, instantly decimating it into pieces—but it was enough to channel the flames harmlessly over and around them.

Napolde did not waver even as a rain of rocks and dirt fell around them. She fixed her gaze at the monster approaching her, her hands still clasped at her chest as she uttered another incantation.

Jared, Mikieru, and Shin-ju stared on in disbelief as Garrione stopped in his tracks. Vines and roots had suddenly sprung up through the pavement and began wrapping themselves around the Fire Elemental’s limbs. The monster roared in fury, writhing to free itself from the living prison.

Napolde cringed, beads of sweat beginning to form on her temple. Garrione’s flames were burning through her cage of plants. She could not hold him for long—Mikieru took one look at her face and knew that this was the limit of her powers.

• • •

To have the fabled powers of the Elven Druids manifest themselves before my eyes… this is truly a remarkable Elf, Mikieru thought, getting up on two feet. This only means one thing… we are in a situation that would force her to reveal the powers she swore to hide.

Mikieru walked towards the Elf’s side, his gloved hand reaching up to the silver cross around his neck.

Then it also means I should do no less, Mikieru said, opening a tiny latch on the cross.

• • •

Shin-ju could not see what Mikieru was doing. The Cleric had his back turned to him. However, the boy could discern him taking something from around his neck and pressing it to his lips. Then he saw the Cleric stop walking when he reached Napolde’s side.

• • •

Mikieru stared at Garrione dismally, truly hurt by seeing his old friend degenerate into something like this.

You wanted too much power, Mikieru thought, slowly feeling strength and vigor returning to his body. And you received that which even you could not control. This is the price of that power… were you aware of the cost, Garrione? Did you know it would eventually come to this, even without my intervention?

Garrione’s arm snapped free from Napolde’s vines.

I am sorry to be the one to end this, old friend, Mikieru thought. We both know this is the only conclusion to this madness. I only pray that you will find in death the peace you failed to find in life.

• • •

Shin-ju and Jared stared on, watching a brilliant white aura envelope Mikieru’s tall frame. Neither of them had ever seen the Cleric’s ultimate skill before—and both watched with their breaths stuck in their throats.

• • •

Garrione broke free from Napolde’s living cage and lunged towards the four friends with a roar. The Elf fell backwards, exhausted from the exertion. Jared reached out and caught her before she fell to the pavement. Together, he, she, and Shin-ju watched as Mikieru prepared to meet the approaching monster.

• • •

The Cleric placed one foot in front of him and bent forward, flinging his arms behind him. In the brilliance of his white aura he summoned two large pulsating orbs of light in his hands. Then he opened his mouth and gave the name of his ultimate technique.

“MAGNUS… LUMINA SANCTUS…”

His voice reverberated through the Clock Tower square.

“BOLT OF THE HEAVENS!”

His three friends watched in awe as he flung his arms forward repeatedly, flinging orb after orb after powerful orb of antimatter towards Garrione. The balls of energy did not only slam into the monster’s frame—they tore straight through—fully delivering the intended damage to what remained of the Knight-Mage’s life force. Bright flashes of light accompanied Mikieru’s final execution as he flung a seemingly endless number of orbs at the Knight-Mage.

Garrione released a prolonged roar as the last of the Bolts tore through his body. The roar echoed around the Al de Baran hillside long after Mikieru completed his ultimate technique and the flames around the Knight-Mage’s body died down.

Then, in a moment of humanity, Garrione lowered his eyes to Mikieru’s. His irises were visible again, and they gave the Cleric a final, meaningful glance.

“Save… me…” a whisper escaped his lips.

The Knight-Mage’s eyes closed and he pitched forward, falling on his face. Garrione, once-great Knight of Prontera, would never get up again.

• • •

Silence prevailed over the Clock Tower square. There was nothing to be heard save for the snapping of the flames that dotted the ruined cobblestone pavement and the low howl of the mountain winds. Garrione, the leader of the Old Occultists, was dead—and his ambitions with him.

“It’s… over…” Jared whispered.

Napolde rested her head on the Merchant’s chest, her eyes still fixed on the Knight-Mage’s dead body. Shin-ju was up on one knee, watching every move that Mikieru made. The Cleric’s white aura disappeared soon after Garrione passed on, and he spent a few moments staring at his fallen friend.

Then, to Shin-ju’s puzzlement, Mikieru walked over to Garrione’s body and knelt beside his face. The Cleric reached into his coat’s inside pocket and drew out a vial of Holy Water, wetting his thumb with it. Uttering a quiet prayer, Mikieru dabbed a cross on his dead comrade’s forehead.

Shin-ju shook his head at Mikieru’s action. Garrione, who had killed so many in his blind quest for vengeance, was receiving Last Rites from a sworn enemy. He did not understand.

Mikieru sensed Shin-ju’s unease. “I am a Priest before anything else, Shin-ju,” he said silently, answering the boy’s unasked question. “I do not refuse to administer God’s gifts to those who humbly ask.”

Shin-ju stared on, his lips open in disquiet, as Mikieru continued his prayers.

“Even after all he’s done?” the boy whispered.

“Especially after all he has done,” the Cleric answered calmly. “Anyone can have the courage needed to face one’s enemies, Shin-ju. But do you have the courage to forgive them?”

Shin-ju stared into space.

Then he set his eyes down to the pavement, troubled to a good extent.

I… do not… have that courage… he thought, closing his eyes. I cannot forgive…

The boy opened his eyes when he felt Mikieru’s heavy gloved hand on his shoulder.

“No one is born with this courage, Shin-ju,” Mikieru whispered, looking down on the boy’s bowed head. “It is learned. But you will only learn it if you truly wish to. That is the challenge of the Brave Life… That is your challenge.”

With a comforting squeeze, Mikieru walked past the boy, leaving him to his thoughts.

• • •

Jared and Napolde wordlessly turned around as Mikieru passed them by. The stalwart Cleric was walking towards the middle of the ruined square, where he would face his next trial—confronting the angry horde of Occultists, all of whom bore witness to the demise of their ultimate leader.

Mikieru stopped when he reached the spot he was walking towards. His green-and-blue eyes scanned the mob of bandana-bearing men and women that barred all hopes of escape from the Clock Tower square. With the calmness that he was known for, Mikieru raised a gloved hand and raised his index and middle fingers together. He was offering a sign of peace—the battle was over.

It took only one Occultist, who angrily drew his sword at the Cleric’s gesture, to set a tide of unsheathing weapons around the Clock Tower square. Soon all of the Occultists were armed—and all had their sights set on the four friends.

• • •

Shin-ju looked behind him, seeing the Occultists brandish their weapons in rejection of Mikieru’s peace offering. The sound of blades scraping against their sheaths made the boy remember the Cleric’s last words to him.

No one is born with this courage. It is learned. But you will only learn it if you truly wish to. That is the challenge of the Brave Life. That is your challenge.

The boy’s gray eyes scanned the dark mob of armed Occultists.

If I don’t learn this courage, I won’t be any better than these Occultists, Shin-ju thought, shuffling painfully to his feet. If I don’t learn to forgive… I won’t be any better than Garrione.

• • •

Still offering his gesture of peace, Mikieru turned his head to a shuffling sound at his side. Shin-ju was staggering, his left arm painfully favoring his right torso. Mikieru could see that he was in pain, but he also saw that the boy’s right hand was clenched into a fist.

Shin-ju moved his eyes in the direction of Mikieru as he reached the Cleric’s side, but he did not look up into his eyes. He merely took one moment glancing in the Cleric’s direction before turning back at the Occultist mob and nodding, indicating that he was ready.

Mikieru returned the dismal nod, and faced the Occultists again.

• • •

Napolde straightened, placing her hand on Jared’s chest. She looked at Mikieru and Shin-ju… then she looked up at the stunned Merchant.

Jared understood immediately. She wanted to help them.

The Merchant slowly nodded in submission, reluctantly releasing his hold on the Elf’s shoulders. Napolde then gave him a long, grateful smile, before turning around and walking to Mikieru’s opposite side.

• • •

Mikieru, Shin-ju and Napolde waited together, preparing for the worst, as the Occultist mob took their first steps towards them.

• • •

End of Chapter Twelve

[Mikey]

Chapter Thirteen
The Stone’s Horrible Secret

A maintained, high-pitched ring was all Shin-ju could hear while he, Mikieru, and Napolde stood their ground against the approaching Occultists. Severe exhaustion made him dizzy, and his throat was painfully dry and sticky. His body screamed at him to lie down and rest, but he bit back the impulse to give up. There was no rest to be had until he and his friends were safe.

Through half-closed eyes, he saw the Occultists approach them from all directions. At first, they took slow, cautious steps. Shin-ju’s eyelids drooped for a moment, engulfing the boy in a tempting blackness, but he immediately opened them again—to the sight of charging Occultists. He painfully shifted into a fighting stance, only to have his fatigued eyes close again—he wobbled on his heels as he forced them open one more time.

This time, he saw that the Occultists had stopped charging. Instead, they were cautiously standing their ground, eyes of the multitude alternately moving to the hillsides around them and the arrows that were embedded in the ground in front of them.

Arrows? Shin-ju thought, glancing at Mikieru. The Cleric was looking around the Clock Tower square, a hint of a smile on his face.

Shin-ju could not hear a thing, but he knew Napolde and Jared were showing signs and gestures of relief. It wasn’t until the boy looked around him that he realized the reason for their reprieve.

On the hillsides that crept over the walls bounding three sides of the Clock Tower square, several Payon Knights stood with arrows pulled into their longbows, each in deadly aim at an Occultist. Other Payon Knights, fully-armored and Katanas in hand, were descending the slopes and running to rally around the four friends. Powerful falcons were circling the air over the Occultists, ready to dive in and rake their razor-sharp talons through the mob at the mere signal of their masters.

Shin-ju did a quick head-count and realized there were almost one hundred Payon Knights scattered on three sides of the Clock Tower square.

Mr. Akira, the boy realized, exhaling heartily. They made it!

• • •

Akira nodded in satisfaction, knowing that their gamble had paid off. He knew that Al de Baran would be impenetrable from the front, so he and his officers planned to break formation before reaching the Machine City’s foothills and approach it from behind. They had successfully scaled the treacherous rock hills on the Clock Tower’s three sides and now had the advantage of higher ground over the Occultists.

The Shousa stood on a rock on the square’s rear hillside, giving himself a commanding view of the battlefield. His valiant officers stood beside him, ready to deliver any of his orders to the frontlines. His swordsmen stood in a staggered line behind the four friends below him, and his archers were perched perfectly on the crests of their hills. The medical team stood at the ready, Yoriko among them.

Below, Mikieru spotted Akira’s tall armored frame. From the distance, he gave the Shousa a nod of gratitude.

Akira nodded the nod, but he immediately set his eyes back on the battlefield. Despite their skill and terrain advantage, they were still outnumbered thirty-to-one by the Occultists and traitorous Payon Knights. This was going to be a difficult battle.

“<Stand fast,>” Akira told his officers in firm Payonese. “<The Cleric will give his ultimatum, and we will fight if the Occultists refuse.>”

• • •

“Garrione is dead,” Mikieru shouted at the Occultists. “His misguided revolution is over. I offer you peace. Enough blood has been shed on his behalf. This must end. I ask you all, very respectfully, to lay down your weapons and stand down.”

Shin-ju, Jared, and Napolde waited for the Occultists to give their response.

Seven burly Occultists, who used to be Garrione’s bodyguards, defiantly raised their weapons in answer. “Justice!” they yelled. “Justice!”

“Justice!” the other Occultists yelled in chorus, spurred by their superiors’ audacity. “Justice!”

Jared shook his head at the Occultists’ refusal. “I am so starting to hate that word,” the Merchant muttered.

At that moment, all the soldiers on both sides raised their weapons and prepared for the unavoidable battle.

• • •

Napolde’s gaze shot skyward.

Mikieru, being familiar with the subtle sensation that came with the movement of elemental mana, noticed it as well. He and the Elf had felt an out-of-place shift in the mana around the Clock Tower square. Cautiously the Cleric took steps back towards his friends, all the while scanning the plaza for the cause of the shift.

The calm in his face contrasted sharply with the look of deep fear that came over Napolde’s visage as the shift came again, this time with enough strength to cause a change in the winds as well. The mana movement was strong enough for Mikieru to ascertain its cause—it was the telltale mana compressions that came with the opening of a Warp Portal.

Mikieru’s mouth tightened as he waited for the third mana shift—it would allow him to pinpoint the exact location of the portal. When it came, a miniature vortex of wind spiralled down from the atmosphere and centered into the middle of the Clock Tower square—directly between the Occultists and Akira’s platoon. It was enough to stop the startled Occultists in their tracks.

Mystified, Akira watched as the strange interruption unfolded in the plaza below him. His officers glanced at him cautiously, intently waiting for any orders to be issued by the Shousa.

• • •

“Napolde?” Jared asked, noticing the Elf’s fearful countenance. “What’s wrong?”

Napolde’s lips were quivering as she muttered her response. “Someone is… coming.”

“Someone? Who?”

“Someone… like you…”

Stupefied, Jared listened as Napolde continued:

“It is another Keeper. I feel his presence… and the presence of the one he keeps…”

• • •

Mikieru squinted as the gathering malevolent energies converged in the middle of the Clock Tower square. Bolts of crackling energy began to shoot from the vortex’s core, intensifying steadily until a black void began to open around it.

Shin-ju couldn’t believe his eyes. It was almost as if the very fabric of reality had been peeled back to reveal a dark hole, where time and space had no hold over physical existence. He apprehensively watched as a man, clothed in a long black Payonese robe and a large sakkat, stepped out of the void and onto the cobblestones of the Clock Tower square.

All eyes were fixed on the strange newcomer, even as the Warp Portal began to close and the winds began to die down. When silence finally prevailed over the square, the man’s wrinkled hands reached up to remove the sakkat from his eyes.

Jared shook his head dismally. All this time, he did not want to think that the Taishou had betrayed them to Garrione and the Occultists. He knew his worst fears had come true when the man lowered the sakkat and revealed his face to everyone in the plaza.

Many of the Occultists grinned in recognition of the man. They knew that this man was instrumental in setting Garrione’s plan into motion, and now they were sure he would succeed where the Knight-Mage had failed.

The Taishou’s face had an utter lack of expression as he scanned the three thousand that stood at his right side and on the one hundred that stood on his left. When his eyes fell upon Garrione’s fallen body behind Mikieru and his friends, however, a noticeable frown came over his countenance.

“Garrione,” the old warrior intoned. “I had feared my plan was doomed from the start…”

The Taishou then rose to Mikieru’s face. The Cleric’s tall stature and commanding position in front of his friends immediately told him that if he had any business with Jared Wycrow, he would have to speak to this Priest first.

“I am here for Wycrow’s Stone,” the Taishou said quietly.

Before Mikieru could answer, Jared’s voice shot forward.

“Straight to the point, huh?” the Merchant yelled angrily. “Don’t waste your breath, Taishou. We know what you want and you won’t be getting it. We’ve already gone through so much to protect it.”

The Taishou listened to Jared’s outburst, then shook his head.

“Do you even realize why you protect it?” the warrior asked.

Jared’s expression changed from that of anger into one of surprise. Grimly, he looked down and patted his jacket where the Stone was hidden. As convinced as he was of the Stone’s importance, somehow he could not put the reason behind his conviction into words…

“Explain yourself, Taishou,” Mikieru interjected for the Merchant.

The Taishou raised a disinterested glance at the Cleric. “You wish the exposition, Priest?” the warrior replied. “Very well. I suppose you deserve as much, that you have sacrificed so much to go this far to protect your precious treasure.

“As you might know, I am in possession of a Stone quite similar to Wycrow’s. You have heard the legends, yes? These Stones were the charge of the ancient Alchemist guild, the Goldraiders. These Stones supposedly held the powers of the fabled ‘Philosopher’s Stone,’ blessed with the capacity of turning ordinary lead into gold.

“Do not think I seek the Stone for that reason, Priest. I am beyond the primal desire for wealth. I instead seek the Stone’s true powers.”

“True powers,” Mikieru repeated.

“Yes,” the Taishou replied, closing his eyes as though he was very tired. “I have studied extensively the activities of the Goldraiders and their Elven Druid friends—from the moment of their founding eight hundred years ago, through the sensational mad rush that accompanied rumors of the Stone’s finding, up until the disrepute that caused their disbanding decades ago. All the chronicles and all the writings and all the rumors had led me to one conclusion…

“…that there was, in fact, more than one of these Stones in existence.”

Napolde huddled close to Jared when she heard this. Never had she felt more afraid than now—people outside of the Goldraiders and Elven Druid Rites knew of the Stones!

“You have a Stone, as well?” Mikieru ventured.

The Taishou nodded, his eyes still closed. “Payon’s Shogun Family, the Yamagachis, first arrived in Midgard from our mother continent Khan 250 years ago. With them, they brought a strange three-faced Stone that had been in their family’s possession for over a millennium. Found in the mountains by an ancestor, it was found to be utterly indestructible, whether by force or fire. It did not seem to serve a purpose, but the Yamagachis deemed that it should be kept until its use could be determined.

“After all those centuries of neglect, the task of keeping it has fallen to me, the Taishou.

“I studied the Stone, as well. That was how I drew my conclusions between the Goldraiders’ quest for the Philosopher’s Stone and this one Stone. I was convinced that another Stone existed besides the one in my possession, and I was secretly determined to find them all before I died. I am growing old and feeble, as you can see, so you can only imagine my excitement when word of Wycrow’s Stone reached my ear mere weeks ago.

“Being based in Payon, I was powerless to verify whether the rumors were true. That was when I consorted with the fallen Knight Garrione… he and his Old Occultists were based in Al de Baran and would have been perfect for the task of recovering the Stone for me—or at least, I was convinced of such at first.”

“You consorted… with such as he and these?” Mikieru asked, astonished. “You, the second-most honored person in Payon, consorted with a fallen Knight and his band of mercenaries?”

The Taishou was quiet for a moment. “Hope drives man to the limits of his capabilities, yes?”

Mikieru’s visage tightened as the Taishou opened his eyes.

“Old age will make you realize that despair does the exact same, Priest… oftentimes, to extents much further than hope can muster.”

Jared held Napolde close, his eyes still defiantly fixed on the Taishou as the old warrior resumed his rationalizations.

“Garrione sought a war of vengeance against Prontera for the Kingdom’s war crimes during the Frontier War. He had the zeal, but he lacked the manpower. At most he mustered only a few hundred mercenaries and hooligans, and as such, he was not considered a threat by the Kingdom. Tristan and his Advisers downplayed the Occultists’ activities for the past two years… Garrione and I both knew that if there ever were a time for the Knight-Mage to exact his revenge, it would be now, when the Kingdom was weak and unprepared.

“We agreed on a deal… I was to provide him with enough manpower and weaponry to overrun Al de Baran and turn it into his stronghold. If he succeeded, he would have stood a good chance into getting the revenge he sought from the Kingdom…”

The Taishou sighed. “I tire of this conversation, knowing that our grand scheme has not fallen into place…”

“I have one more question,” Mikieru ventured. “Am I to understand that it was you who forged Garrione’s magical sword and gave it to him?”

The great warrior sniffed audibly at this question, but did not answer right away.

“Payonese swordsmithing may be considered Midgard’s best, but Sinjustice was not Oriental in nature. It was immense, two-edged, and black. Almost… Old Nordic… in appearance.”

The Taishou smiled slightly at the Cleric’s elucidation. “I am beginning to see how you were able to defeat Garrione, Priest,” he drawled. “I am certain that if Garrione had half your intelligence, he would have beaten you soundly, but he had never shown me that sort of wit in our dealings.

“Not I, Priest. It was not I who gave him the sword. Who it was does not concern you.”

Shin-ju was stunned when he heard this. No way… he thought. There’s another one?

“But you admit that there is another… besides you and Garrione… privy to this scheme. I will know his name, please.”

“I cannot tell you…”

“Tell me, Taishou. Now.”

“As I said, Priest, I cannot tell you… the one’s name cannot be pronounced by the Human tongue.”

The Cleric’s eyes widened. “What?” he whispered in shock.

“Too much I have said in this exchange,” the Taishou drawled loudly, a hint of anger in his voice. “Now is the time to make the choice. I desire Wycrow’s Stone, Priest. Give it to me, and I will take my leave of you forever.”

“Forget it,” Jared yelled. “Take your three thousand and try to take it. I won’t hand it over.”

“We will not surrender it, Taishou,” Mikieru finished. “We will fight against you and your forces to protect it.”

The Taishou was unimpressed. “My three thousand?” he asked.

Mikieru and his friends wondered what the Taishou meant.

“Do not think that I am here to muster these fools to victory over you and yours, Priest. They are worth no more than a gnat’s spit.”

This statement was enough to wipe the smug grins off the Occultists’ faces.

“I came here with the intention of taking the Stone, and nothing else. What you plan to do with this army of misguided beasts is of no concern to me.”

What is this? Mikieru thought, bewildered by the Taishou’s actions. He is alone in demanding for the Stone… and now he provokes the Occultists into rage?

Shin-ju looked around in puzzlement. Already, many Occultists had their weapons raised menacingly—and looked as though they were to charge towards the Taishou instead.

The Taishou turned his eyes to the side, as if noticing the anger rising in the Occultist mob behind him. “Must I be stopped at every turn?” the warrior muttered, reaching into the folds of his coat. “I must admit I had wanted the opportunity to see if all my conclusions were correct, but I do wish it did not have to come to this.”

The Taishou drew out a smooth, three-faced purple stone.

“Power over death…” the Taishou whispered.

• • •

Immediately, Mikieru felt overwhelming waves of Undead energies emanating from the Taishou. The Cleric instantly leaped backwards, high up in the air, and landed in front of his friends.

This aura… an alarmed Mikieru thought. It is terrible!

“What’s going on, Mike?” Jared asked loudly.

“Prepare yourselves!” the Cleric shouted. “I do not know what the Taishou is doing, but I sense a deluge of evil coming our way!”

• • •

The Taishou began mumbling an incantation in a heavily accented language that had been long forgotten from the face of Midgard. The warrior did not stop in his incantations even as many of the Occultists lunged towards him from behind, weapons drawn.

At the last instant, rows of runes flashed to life on the faces of the Taishou’s Stone—and a mad smile of satisfaction came to the warrior’s face.

• • •

Screams of terror echoed over the Clock Tower square in the moments that followed—a sudden, total darkness and a deathly chill had enveloped Al de Baran and the surrounding mountainsides. Mikieru and his friends looked around with eyes wide open, but they could not see anything!

• • •

For a stunned moment, Akira wondered whether he had gone blind. He realized it wasn’t the case when he looked towards the horizon from his perch atop the hill ridge. He could see a thin band of sunlight surrounding the horizon on all sides, but something seemed to extinguish all light for dozens of miles around the Clock Tower square.

The cold, dark emptiness that came before the light? Akira thought, shocked. The legend of the One Who Waits… no, it cannot be true!

• • •

This is unreal! Mikieru thought madly. Total darkness in an instant… what is this we face?

Behind him, Shin-ju was disoriented by the darkness. Jared looked around, clutching a fearful Napolde close to him. None of them knew what was going on.

In front of him, Mikieru heard what he thought were sounds of bladed weapons cleaving flesh. The slashes were accompanied with deathcries—apparently from the Occultists—but Mikieru could not see what was happening.

The Cleric immediately closed his eyes and clasped his hands in front of his chest. Channeling his mana to his eyes, he opened them after uttering a short Latin incantation and whispered:

“RUWACH!”

Shin-ju was down on one knee when he heard Mikieru’s utterance. With eyes staring straight ahead, he turned his head towards the sound of the Cleric’s voice. “Is that you, Senpai?” he asked.

• • •

Meanwhile, Mikieru’s field of vision was slowly coming to light. Tch, the Cleric thought, noticing that his surroundings were not being revealed to him quickly enough. Even my Ruwach cannot dispel this darkness in speed… but I only need to see the face of the Taishou…

After what seemed to be several moments for the Cleric, his enhanced vision spell began to reveal the square’s cobblestone pavement.

Then the bloodied, mutilated bodies of Occultists came into view, surrounding what seemed to be a very large hooded figure wearing a tattered cloak.

A Wraith? Mikieru asked himself, recognizing the form of a certain powerful Undead monster he had once read about. No, it seems much… too large…

Ruwach seemed to weaken the more Mikieru trained his eyes on the creature. His field of vision darkened slightly before revealing the hooded figure again—only this time, it seemed to have turned slightly towards Mikieru’s direction.

Ruwach weakened again, and the Cleric strained to see the creature one more time.

• • •

A horrific skull-face flashed before Mikieru’s eyes, with bloodshot eyes fixed murderously on his own!

• • •

Mikieru gasped and stepped backward, almost losing his balance.

“Senpai?” Shin-ju called, reaching out for Mikieru.

The Cleric was breathing heavily as he looked up again, his Ruwach spell still in effect. The creature was still a good distance away—it had not approached Mikieru at all, yet the skull-face that greeted Mikieru seemed to have flashed right before the stunned Cleric.

Such power, Mikieru swallowed, realizing that his natural Priestly immunity to Undead energies was staggered by the creature’s sheer power. This is no ordinary Undead!

“I cannot match this,” Mikieru whispered, closing his painful eyes for a moment.

• • •

Midgard.

Mikieru eyes shot open.

Much has changed.

The Cleric looked around madly. Someone was speaking to him, but the voice seemed to ring in his head… and it spoke to him in Latin.

Humans have lived outside my threads for one hundred centuries.

Mikieru stopped, then looked straight ahead—the creature seemed to be looking straight into his eyes.

I will not allow this to persist. Order will be restored.

The Cleric’s mouth tightened as he held the monster’s stare, knowing that this conversation was only meant to be held between it and he.

You, who champion the cause of disorder… you will be the next to fall.

Then Mikieru decided to talk back.

Who are you? Mikieru thought in Latin.

A hissing sound echoed in Mikieru’s mind for several moments before he received a reply.

• • •

I am Urd.

• • •

End of Chapter Thirteen

[Mikey]

Chapter Fourteen
Urd

“Urd,” Mikieru muttered to himself. “Old Nordic Mythology… Norn of the Past…”

The Cleric was frozen on his feet. For years he had trained for combat with Undead monsters, yet he was totally at a loss as to how to engage this creature. The immense power radiated by Urd was too much for him to fathom.

He watched helplessly as Urd began to well up, like a balloon being filled to its capacity, her skull-face still fixed at his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, she lurched forward and opened her bony jaws, expelling what appeared to be a thick, purple haze that wafted quickly towards Mikieru and his friends.

The Cleric recognized it immediately.

“Poison Spores!” Mikieru yelled to everybody within earshot. “Hold your breaths and get away! Now!”

Almost instantly, Mikieru, his friends, and Akira’s Payon Knights withdrew, trying desperately to get away from the lethal gas.

Mikieru ran away from Urd, only to skid to a stop when he heard Shin-ju’s voice:

“Senpai? Where are you? What’s going on?”

Horrified, Mikieru spun on his heels. Through the darkness, the Cleric saw the form of Shin-ju, down on one knee and oblivious to the column of gas that was drifting dangerously closer.

Mikieru sprinted back towards his Apprentice. “Shin-ju!”

The boy turned at the sound of his name. “Senpai?”

The Cleric held his breath and dove at the boy, wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulders and throwing a gloved hand over the boy’s nose and mouth. Just then, the cloud of Poison Spores came over them and trapped the two of them together.

“Mmph…?” Shin-ju’s muffled voice came from under Mikieru’s hand.

“Don’t breathe, Shin-ju!” Mikieru urged through his teeth. “Whatever you do, don’t breathe!”

Slowly, Mikieru tried to get up with the boy in his arms and desperately sought a way out of the acidic cloud. Finding safety seemed to take an eternity for the two, and they soon found themselves at the brink of either passing out from lack of air or opening their mouths and taking a deep, deadly breath.

It was at this moment when the two heard, once again, the voice of Napolde deep in an Elven incantation.

• • •

The Elf had seen Mikieru run back into the cloud to retrieve Shin-ju, and knew that the two would not find their way out in time. That was when she decided to stop running and force herself to try… something.

Jared watched in stunned disbelief as Napolde raised her arms in completing her incantation. The Merchant suddenly felt strong gusts of wind blowing from behind and around them, seemingly centered on a spot behind Mikieru and Shin-ju.

Napolde stood still, her arms in the air and her eyes fixed at Mikieru and Shin-ju as the miniature cyclone she had summoned effectively funneled and dissipated the gas cloud harmlessly high into the atmosphere.

Mikieru stared at the Elf in awe. She had saved them again.

• • •

The winds died down after several moments, and Napolde fell to her knees in exhaustion. Jared ran to her side in alarm, and together the two looked up as Mikieru ran over to them, Shin-ju in his arms.

“Thank you, my Lady!” the Cleric praised heartily as he lay Shin-ju down. “Please take Shin-ju with you and run—”

One look at Shin-ju’s face cut Mikieru’s voice off at once. The boy’s mouth was open, as if in great pain, and his gray eyes were rolling up into his head!

“Oh no,” Mikieru muttered. “The poison!”

“Shin-ju!” Jared yelled frantically. Beside him, Napolde stared in horror as the boy’s condition worsened before her eyes.

The Cleric shook his head dismally as the boy began to cough and spasm. “He has been infected by Undead Spores,” he said. “This is beyond my skill to heal…”

• • •

Your destiny is death…

• • •

Mikieru heard Urd’s Latin voice in his head once more. Knowing that the creature had just as well killed his Apprentice, he turned to face her in a great fury.

The monster was floating, her bony feet off the ground, and was approaching Mikieru and his friends in speed. There was no time to get up and escape—the Cleric was about to engage the creature in combat, and there was no way around it.

Just then, Mikieru saw the Redeemer lying on the ground between he and Urd. In a rage, the Cleric leaped to his feet and sprinted towards his weapon, sweeping it into his arms without missing a step in his charge towards the monster.

“I will beat you back whence you came, FIEND!” Mikieru shouted angrily, the Redeemer suddenly exhibiting a pale white glow as he and Urd rapidly closed the distance between them.

A bright flash of white lit up the Clock Tower square as Mikieru slammed the Redeemer into Urd’s side.

• • •

“<What was that?>” Akira asked his officers the moment he saw the flash. “<Did any of you see what caused that flash?>”

“<No, sir,>” a few of his officers answered in unison.

“<Then keep your eyes open,>” he ordered. “<We must ascertain the nature of this new threat and pinpoint its location as soon as possible.>”

• • •

“He is fading fast,” Napolde commented worriedly, his hand on Shin-ju’s sweaty forehead. “The potency of the poison is incredible…”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Jared asked, trying to search his packs for potions.

Napolde bit her lip—she knew of a way to neutralize the poison, but she doubted if she had enough energy left to execute the dangerous spell.

“Only one,” the Elf answered slowly. “I can focus my Druid mana into Shin-ju’s bloodstream to kill the poison. I will die if I fail, but I must try…”

The Merchant was shocked at this proposal. “But Napolde…!”

“He saved us, my love! I must try!”

The Elf’s sharp answer kept Jared’s objections at bay. She laid her hands on Shin-ju’s chest and closed her eyes.

• • •

Mikieru’s charged Blessing to the limits of his capabilities, neither minding nor caring the tax it was imposing on his already-depleted energies. He swung the Redeemer at Urd again and again, parrying all the attacks that the creature threw at him.

The Cleric realized that Urd attacked with lethally sharp bones that seemed to extend and retract at will from her hands. The creature easily matched Mikieru’s amplified speed and strength, but the Cleric’s fury kept him from backing down.

Mikieru increased his speed steadily until his eyes caught an opening. Yelling, he thrust the Redeemer at it with reckless abandon—and drove one of its weighted ends straight into Urd’s chest, its Perma-Aspersio aspect burning a hole through the creature’s body.

The white flash came again.

• • •

Akira’s eyes widened.

“<Was that what I think it was?>” he asked in disbelief.

One of his officers turned to him. “<I think it was a Wraith, sire… a rather large one at that…>”

Akira thought the same thing. “<Prepare yourselves, then. Be ready to draw swords and engage the beast at my command.>”

• • •

Napolde’s face twisted in exertion, an audible expression of pain escaping her lips. She poured every ounce of her Elven Druid mana into Shin-ju’s body in hopes that its natural healing aspect would kill the deathly poison in the boy’s blood, but she felt she did not have enough energy to save Shin-ju. She was about to let go.

But she felt Jared place his hand over hers. The Merchant looked into her eyes and nodded.

“You can do this,” he whispered.

It was enough for her to bite back the excruciating pain a bit longer and concentrate on killing the poison in the boy’s blood.

• • •

Mikieru’s enraged visage exhibited a look of surprise when Urd grasped the shaft of the Redeemer that protruded from her chest. Instead of wrenching the holy weapon out of her body, her yellowing fingers pulled it further into the hole in her chest and mockingly dropped her bony jaw at Mikieru.

The Cleric bared his teeth in wrath. He looked into Urd’s bloodshot eyes, dangling from their skull sockets, and saw for a fleeting moment the sight of a dying Shin-ju’s face.

In righteous fury, Mikieru drew his gloved right hand back from the Redeemer’s shaft, curled it into a fist, and hurled a sweeping punch that slammed into Urd’s skull-face. The force delivered was so massive that the creature’s head broke off its spinal cord, sent flying far back into the darkness. It bounced off the cobblestone pavement a few times before rolling to a stop.

Urd’s body began to clatter loudly, and the bony hand left the Redeemer’s shaft. Soon the cloak fell to the ground in a heap, the bones falling off their joints. The smell of rot soon wafted from what was left of Urd’s body.

Mikieru breathed heavily, stepping backwards from the smoldering heap. He pulled the Redeemer free from what was left of Urd’s shattered ribcage, his blue-and-green eyes fixed on the creature’s remains. He stared at it for a long moment, knowing that its ugliness was still preferable to the sight of his dead Apprentice…

• • •

“Mike!”

Jared’s voice came from behind him, but he pretended not to hear.

“Mike!” the Merchant called again. “Napolde stopped the poison! Shin-ju’s alive!”

Shocked, Mikieru turned around. Shin-ju was on the ground, unconscious, his head turned to the side. He was obviously breathing, and he looked as though he was peacefully asleep. Napolde knelt beside the boy’s body, eyes closed and gasping for air. Jared held her up with one hand while waving to Mikieru with the other.

It took a moment for the relieved smile to appear on the Cleric’s face.

“She saved us again,” Mikieru muttered to himself, a hint of surprise in his voice. He walked back towards his friends, his weary arms dragging the Redeemer on the ground.

• • •

Your destiny is death…

• • •

Mikieru froze. Urd’s voice rang clear in his mind, and he once again felt the waves of Undead energies tear through his body from behind!

The stunned Cleric spun on instinct, throwing the Redeemer up in time to keep his body from being torn apart by Urd’s morphic, razor-sharp fingers. The force of the creature’s blow was so strong that it knocked the quarterstaff-mace out of Mikieru’s fingers and threw the Cleric a good distance backward.

Mikieru fell on his back, sent on an uncontrollable tumble towards his friends. When he finally slowed to a stop, he painfully forced himself up on one elbow and raised his eyes to Urd.

Somehow, Urd’s body had pieced itself back together, bone by bone, and now stood as if Mikieru had failed to do any damage to her at all.

Impossible, the Cleric thought, pushing himself to his feet. Even Undead monsters cannot survive a clean decapitation… is this creature immortal?

• • •

Jared looked on in disbelief as Mikieru faced off with Urd a second time, this time without the Redeemer in his hands.

Napolde knew she had to help the Cleric again, but a sharp pang of pain stabbed the Elf in the midsection when she tried to get up on her feet—and she fell to the ground clutching her navel and coughing painfully.

The Merchant glanced at Napolde helplessly. She was spent. Shin-ju was unconscious, and Mikieru was fighting a losing battle.

• • •

Mikieru was at a loss. Even the Redeemer, with its perma-Aspersio aspect, could not hurt this Undead monster. At this moment, when all else had failed, the Cleric could think of only one last attempt to destroy this monster once and for all.

Over my dead body, Mikieru thought in Latin. Understand, FIEND?!

Urd emitted a guttural groan that—Mikieru swore—almost sounded like laughter.

The Cleric planted his feet on the ground and prepared to channel all his remaining mana into his hands. A white aura began to envelope his body, moments before the sound of his voice echoed around the Clock Tower square.

“MAGNUS… LUMINA SANCTI…”

• • •

Akira’s eyes widened as he heard Mikieru’s voice from below, screaming the words:

“BOLT OF THE HEAVENS!”

The Shousa and his officers shielded their eyes as several flashes of white light illuminated the Clock Tower square over the next few moments.

• • •

Mikieru yelled loudly as he flung bolt after bolt of Holy Light at Urd. To the Cleric’s horror, the bolts did not tear through the creature’s body—they bounced right off![I] The bolts ricocheted off Urd’s frame and flew into the sky, smashed into the surrounding hillsides, or were deflected down into the pavement, heaving up sizeable chunks of cobblestone.

[I]I might kill someone! The Cleric thought madly, instinctively ending his ultimate skill prematurely by stopping the formation of Holy Bolts in his hands. But by doing so, the mana surging through his body caused him great pain that shot from head to toe—and Mikieru fell on all fours

I… cannot… match this… Mikieru thought, gasping for air.

Suddenly Mikieru felt numb. Aghast, he realized that he could not move. He felt as though someone had grabbed him by his neck and pulling him up. Against his will, he got to his knees, up to his feet, until his feet hovered over the pavement.

The Cleric turned his eyes to Urd. The creature was floating towards him, her own reddened stare fixed on his.

Am I being… Turned? Mikieru thought, gritting his teeth. Damnation!

This was any Priest’s worst fear—being Turned by the very creatures he had sought to Turn. Urd had Mikieru’s weakened body under her control, and the Cleric could do nothing but watch helplessly as the bones in her right hand began to shapeshift into a sharp, slender spear.

As Urd came closer, she drew her spear-hand back, about to deliver the deathblow by piercing the Cleric through his heart.

“NO!” Mikieru yelled, forcing his right arm from the creature’s hold and casting a hasty Kyrie Eleison shield.

The clear shield shattered as Urd thrust her spear-hand forward—and Mikieru emitted a prolonged groan through his teeth as the bony spear drove itself through his shoulder.

• • •

Urd withdrew her spear-hand after failing to hit Mikieru’s heart on her first stab. She aligned its bloody point at the center of Mikieru’s chest—but a chunk of broken pavement hitting her head kept her from delivering the final blow.

Hissing, Urd turned to see where the broken pavement came from—and saw Jared Wycrow hurling rocks at her face from behind the Cleric.

“Leave him alone, ya big FREAK!” Jared yelled, tears falling from his eyes as he flung the rocks and pavement at the creature. “It’s me you’re after! Y’ want me? Come and get me!”

Napolde stared in shock as Jared reached into his jacket and drew out the Stone for Urd to see.

“JARED, NO!” she screamed.

• • •

“Bastard,” Jared muttered, his teary eyes fixed on Urd. “If everyone’s willing to sacrifice themselves for this Stone, then I’m no different!”

Urd turned to face Jared completely, losing all interest in Mikieru. The Cleric fell to the ground clutching his bloodied shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s it!” Jared fumed, waving the Stone in the air. “Over here, ya BASTARD!”

“JARED, STOP! DO NOT DO THIS!” Napolde screamed again.

Behind them, unnoticed, Shin-ju’s eyes fluttered open to the sound of the Elf’s wails.

• • •

Mikieru watched Urd’s towering form over him as the creature raised her arms over her head, conjuring what seemed to be a black ball of antimatter. It crackled with energy as it grew in size, sending waves of Undead mana in all directions. The Cleric realized that Urd was drawing from her own spiritual energy and compressing it into a form that could be used as a weapon.

Just like Holy Light—on the opposite end of the divine spectrum.

Defiantly, Jared stood his ground, holding the Stone in front of him like a Shield.

I’m the one who started this whole mess, the Merchant thought angrily. If all my friends are gonna get killed over this, it’s only right that I’ll be the first to go… but if you destroy me, you destroy this Stone too!

“DO NOT GIVE HER THE STONE!” the Elf pleaded one last time.

At that moment, Urd’s Darkmatter orb reached its peak compression, and the creature flung it into an unerring trajectory towards the defiant Merchant. As the orb tore through the air toward him, Jared shut his eyes and braced himself for instant death.

• • •

The impact produced a loud explosion—and a bloodcurdling shriek of pain.

• • •

He was unharmed. Jared opened his eyes wildly as a clump of someone else’s blood spattered onto his face. The sight he beheld was one that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

It was a young woman in a silk robe, her back arched and her arms and head thrown back in excruciating pain. Bits of silk, flesh, and blood lay suspended in the air between them in that instant—a moment before the woman lowered her beautiful, tearful face to his.

The Stone fell from Jared’s fingers as he lunged forward and screamed her name.

“NAPOLDE!”

Down on the ground behind Urd, a wide-eyed Mikieru looked on as the stricken Elf fell into Jared’s arms and the Stone bounced off the pavement. Napolde had run straight into the Darkmatter orb’s path to protect Jared and the Stone—and paid for it with her life.

• • •

“Oh no… no, no… Napolde, no, please…” Jared whimpered, holding the Elf close to him as he fell to his knees. “Oh, God, what have I done?”

With one of Jared’s hands cradling her bloodied back and the other brushing her hair off her face, Napolde coughed up blood and pleaded again.

“Do not give it to her… please… do not give her the Stone…”

“Napolde…” Jared sobbed.

“Please, Jared… promise me…”

Jared stared into her eyes for a few moments. She had just sacrificed her life to save him, to save a Stone whose purpose was known to only her. It was all he could do to reluctantly nod in reply. “I…” he choked. “I… promise…”

• • •

At that moment, Jared and Napolde paid no mind to the darkness and the chaos that prevailed around them. At that moment, there was only the two of them, staring into each other’s teary eyes. It was at that moment when Napolde would breathe her last… but not before she left her beloved with her final words.

“Alas… that I must wait so long to hold you again… my love…”

• • •

Napolde closed her eyes and lay perfectly, peacefully still in Jared’s arms. The Merchant’s face contorted in pain as he pulled her body close to his, burying his face on her shoulder. He sorrowfully wept in guilt and loss, his heart-rending sobs heard by all.

• • •

Behind him, Shin-ju lay on his back with his head turned to the side. His empty gray eyes had borne witness to the Elf’s death—and it awakened, hidden deep down inside him, bottled-up emotions and furies that he had tried so hard to forget all these years…

• • •

“<Damn it, we have waited too long!>” Akira yelled, unsheathing his Katana. “<Draw your swords, men! This moment we fight!>”

His officers drew their swords, then followed their leader as he leaped off his hillside perch and descended towards the battlegrounds. They had finally pinpointed the creature’s location—and they were about to engage it in combat themselves.

• • •

Urd’s eyes were set on Jared’s Stone when Akira and his officers landed on the pavement around her. She looked around at the newcomers, realizing that seven fully-armored Payon Knights had her surrounded.

“<It ends now!>” Akira yelled, invoking the self-enhancement spell that had given the Payon Knights their fearsome reputation:

]TWO-HAND QUICKEN!

Soon, yellow auras emanated from the shoulders of all seven warriors surrounding the creature. In a few seconds, they would together unleash an unstoppable barrage of blades in high hopes of killing the creature for good.

• • •

With the sight of Napolde’s horrific death playing over and over in his mind, Shin-ju began to lose consciousness again. The last thing his tortured eyes saw before they closed was the sight of a crying Jared cradling Napolde’s body in his arms, silhouetted by the golden auras of Akira and his warriors as they charged into a surrounded Urd.

• • •

…

…

…

…

…

• • •

“So,” a soft female voice asked. “Found it yet?”

• • •

End of Chapter Fourteen