Tear A Path 258 War Game

Ode felt his age, a swirling ma.s.s of deterioration, sickness and regret choking whatever fire was left in him. That's how most people went, they shone as brightly as they could burning up whatever they had before time took it away from them. And Ode of all people had burned more than his fair share in the hearth of war.

So much so, that he was antic.i.p.ating the day he broke. It woudn't be like others, others would just start cooling and fizzle out. For him, he was waiting for the core that had been hardened to such degrees to just simply shatter under it's own tempering. And it had begun, the cracks barely the width of a hair and shorter than the naked eye could perceive, but they were there, quite a few doting his being.

Waiting, creeping, biding it's time for such a day when he needed it the most. On the day his blood drenched hands would be needed the most, they would falter. And he was sure that on that day, the blood he had collected over the many years of slaughter would be avenged, for that was the fate of his kind.

He watched his current replacement with a conflicted look on his face, watching his former teacher take up a stage meant for young bulls. The young man had been through too much under him, any blood he'd piled up had been payed to the piper in full much before he could even enjoy the flames of the battlefield.

And though he could no longer call himself the lad's teacher he did pray that the flames of war did not burn them both the same way. With loss dealt so early in life, the kid would have a thirst that the boiling of his enemy's blood could not quench.

His grip found some trouble trying to carry his blade and shield onto a bench to inspect it. A sight not missed by his adversary today who respond with a smirk at such a pitiful attempt.

If one of his students could grow up with enough decency to not end up like this young upstart, he thinks that maybe he'd have lived a life fulfilled. But most of them were dead, the only one left of his old teachings hated him and he was too old to say he'd be alive to see his youngest student grow.

As he thought these things, he stripped his armor off his body. Maybe the first time he'd ever done so in the face of his enemy. It was quite a good feeling, being unfettered of the irons that were meant to protect him. And even as he stood there with his chest bare of any defense, none could laugh at his demeanor.

A sight even the most battle hardened warriors found hard to achieve, a body that held even more honor than medals bestowed by the king. One that had it's honor bestowed by the various warriors, killers, fighters that had ever crossed paths with this man, their skills and dedication to their weapons were etched into his flesh, their stories ended by him.

Every single person here understood one thing, if they were alive or someone they cared about was alive today, not under the oppression of a ruler but free under their own banner. Then they owed this man something.

Alos took up his great-sword in both his hands as he hmphed, a trail of mist formed in the wind with his breath. His abdomen moving rigidly like a machine, pumping back and forth in support of his breath while the rest of him stood still. He was still a.s.sured of his victory, but there was a hint of respect in his eyes.

Even if he were to beat the man in front of him, it would be with his full strength. And Ode wouldn't have it any other way. Seeing the demeanor of his enemy, he felt a rush that he had yet to feel since he was a new recruit, walking back to the barracks with a slab of cold meat to cover a bruise.

He held his shield and pulled his sword from the table, it's weight causing his hand to dip downwards for a moment, sc.r.a.ping some of the floor under him before he raised it to point at the young bull who was prepared to charge at him.

The battle had begun then and there. There was no referee, no rules, foul. They were preparing for war, and there was not to say that their enemy would fight them with rules anyway. But their battles of course did not begin with an explosion of strength, which both side had plenty of. This wasn't a match between grunts, they weren't rushing to pummel each other.

They were watching their opponents. Every breath, every twitch of the muscle, every little blink of the eye foretold the paths of their enemy's blade. A swing or a stab, a slash or smash. Parry or block, advance or retreat. Combat wasn't just a fight of hands a feet, it was a war game superimposed into the bodies of men.

And then the young man leapt.