Several years ago...
"Growing up a noble in a medieval society is supposed to be fun," Errant murmured for the thousandth time, as he picked himself up off the sandy floor of the sparring chamber, probably for the ten thousandth time.
It wasn't that he was depressed, it was just that it wasn't fun, it was just enduring another beating.
It was monotonous. So was his brother's snickering.
Errant sighed, spat out some blood, and got back to his feet. As always, he knew that his refusal to stay down would irritate the heck out of this older brother of his, instead of drawing any admiration or respect.
There was being born into a noble family, and being born into a noble family of Huul-worshipers. Which basically meant power-hungry, arrogant, racist, and elitist assholes.
And it permeated down, through the family and its underlings. Caste system rigidly in place, no crossing it except to abuse your underlings as you like, absolute obedience expected, fear and reverence a given...
It was certainly a place designed to make you full of yourself to those lesser-born then yourself, and a sniveling bootlicker to those above who determined your fate.
His family, the Gilderalz, had been worshipers of Huul for centuries, and quite open about it. They were strong supporters of the Empire, valiant on the battlefield, paid their taxes on time, had a strong fighting force, seconded a lot of knights to the Empire, and never had problems with rebels and peasant uprisings.
The fact that they ruled their duchy with an iron fist was entirely responsible for all that. Despite their open allegiance to the Tyrant of Hell, their position was unshaken in the Empire.
With the recent falling influence of the Heavenly Churches, their position was only getting stronger. In uncertain times, the rigid discipline and authority of Huul drew much attention from the noble classes for its focus on keeping those of lower orders in their place.
Errant smirked to himself as he faced his older brother.
The two years between them resulted in a discrepancy in strength, but not as much as his elder might have wanted. Errant had long opened his Vajra, and the energy it gave him meant he was capable of doing much more work on less sleep then his older siblings. He was third in the order of succession (sexism alive and very well in the Huul faith), and his older brothers were acutely aware that they had to secure their own positions for succession. It meant making sure their siblings didn't take their power, all the while making sure that the power of the family wasn't hurt by actually killing one another.
So, at their age, regular beat-downs to show their youngers that they couldn't possibly compete were a definite thing.
It was just... it was hard for them to do that with him.
Errant lifted his sword. He might only be ten, but he was much stronger than most ten-year-olds, owing to an exercise regime that was literally inhuman. Requiring less then one-fifth the caloric intake of a normal person, he could naturally sustain levels of effort far above his kin, and he did so.
He had to. He was the piece of trash who wasn't born Powered.
His older brother here had already opened his dantian and could wield Chi, which was what he was using to overwhelm Errant's defense. The Style he used was the Damnation Heart, and he was at the level of Dis, letting him add the iron weight of despair to every blow.
In game terms, it was a combination of armor-sundering and a handful of extra damage dice, sort of a back-handed mix of Dark Smites. It was made for the knights of Hell, and his grandfather was a Nessian Master of it, a Ten and one of the most fearsome dark knights in the empire.
He settled into his stance, and the sword in his hand didn't move. He watched his brother's dark eyes glitter in irritation, building up force to execute another of the Dis moves.
He advanced with disconcerting lightness, and his brother reacted with an Iron Shield, the blocking area of his sword expanding out in a flash to easily parry the strike, which would lead to the Wail of Despair, a crushing stroke with extra damage that would lay him out on the floor again.
Errant pulled back his sword, pointing, stepping. The point of his blade found his brother's sword as it arced down, forming a nice sheering path and push, and it deflected nicely to his right, slamming into the floor and gouging through the sand into the stone floor beneath. His pommel came over the extended weapon, crashed into his brother's helm, and sent him stumbling away across the circle.
Errant just smiled normally as Procius nearly fell down, before catching himself and shaking his head in disbelief.
He might not be Powered, but Soul Feats were nigh-invisible and very subtle... and he was a much, much better swordsman then his brothers.
"You insolent cur!" Procius swore, his sword licking up with flames now. Errant just sighed, but his slight smile didn't fade. "You powerless thing that doesn't know your place! That I even allow you to be my punching bag is an honor to you!"
Errant just shook his head. "Oh, I thought it was Father's way of teaching an idiot like you not to underestimate an opponent who doesn't give a shit about your order of birth. My mistake!"
His brother's eyes flashed in the red-black flames that covered his sword. Clearly, he really enjoyed the fact that he could do so, and how impressive it looked. But it was an Avernal-level technique, used up his Chi, and left him less to spend on more useful things.
He flicked it out, and a burning brand lashed across and seared at Errant's mail. He let it, having no fear of the flames whatsoever with his Vajra, and just smirked at his brother's idiocy. Completely ignoring the burning threat of the sword, he lunged in again. His brother couldn't support an Iron Shield, and so parried late.
Errant flowed into the disarm, flipping over the quillons as he spun, hooking the sword and throwing his brother at the same time. With a grunt, Procius went falling over his shoulder and slammed heavily to the ground, while Errant kicked his sword nicely to the edge of the circle.
"What a nice Avernal Sword. You should use it more often," he said calmly, half-bowing to his older brother as he stepped back.
Procius roared to his feet, and his hands burst into flames. He started to advance on Errant, and held up when Errant's sword slid over his gorget and was stopped by the hanging mesh there from impaling him right through the throat.
Errant looked his taller brother calmly in the eyes, and said, "Go fetch your sword, brother. Or do you need a servant to do it for you?"
Procius glared, the hellfire around his hands burning, but found he had nothing to say. Just leaning into his sword, Errant could crush his throat, if not punch through the mail entirely. With a growl he turned away, stalking towards his sword, and toed it up to his hand.
When he turned back, he glanced at the instructors at the sides, and the other trainees, and wariness returned to his eyes.
His younger brother had no Chi, but all the instructors praised him as the most talented fighter in mundane techniques they'd ever seen. Although they would never say it, they were impressed by his skills, even if never being able to learn the Damnation Heart meant he'd never ride with the elite knights of the family.
Errant watched his brother come more cautiously this time, trying to use his height and reach advantage this time... mundane techniques. The smile on his face didn't change as he met swords, and began to spin the tip of his sword around and against his brother's. There was a surge of chi, knocking his sword away, but in the instant before it discharged, he caught up to and slid his brother's sword to the side, and the burst of chi sent his incoming lunge back along the correct path. The point crashed cleanly into the joint of his brother's armor, and Errant was back out of range before Procius could recover and retaliate.
It would be so much easier if he was a Null, and could just ignore Chi entirely, he lamented, but he knew that it was not his fate. He could only win little victories like this, and enjoy the sullen look on his brother's face at his inability to defend against proper technique... and a +10 MAB, which Errant was hiding very effectively.
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He toweled himself off, leaving his disgruntled and humiliated older brother behind, heading off to the kitchens to grab a quick bite. His easy manner with the servant women meant they showed their favoritism to him in subtle ways, even if the more attractive (and ambitious) ones pursued being paramours of his brothers. He knew he had at least four half-brothers, but they were not allowed to live in the main house, relegated to the quarters of the knights and men-at-arms who protected the family. Although their status was less, they had an inalienable right to apply for positions of knighthood and least nobility, which would raise theirs and their mothers' status accordingly.
A slim, dark figure in black and red robes, somewhat reminiscent of clerical attire, was at the table in the dining hall as he passed through. The pale face of Master Phlenigos looked up and saw him, and immediately smiled thinly.
"Master Errant, I wonder if I may have a moment of your time?"
Errant looked into the black-orbed, red-pupiled eyes of the Hellbound Warlock in front of him without fear or sympathy. The man had likely been a low-born scholar, with no patron or opportunities before him, and sold his soul to Hell for the chance at real power.
Hell had nine Warlock Pacts, each tied to a level of Hell and its diabolic master. The arch-devils vied with one another for servants, as the total number of Warlock Pacts Hell could empower had an absolute limit of five hundred per world, just like any other Rank Five Profound Power. Only the fact that the Seven Heavens, Elysium, and Paradise tended to act together and share Pacts among themselves skewed the results for Heavenbound, who considered themselves all members of the greater Cause of Good.
"Master Phlenigos." The scholar with the slicked-back hair was not a martial Warlock. He had taken the Tyrant's Heart Pact of Nessus, a popular one for Warlocks who mingled with higher society. Having a Pact tied to the Prime Minister of Hell, Asmodeus Himself, was a natural choice, and they considered themselves the elite of the Hellbound.
That naturally meant that their more martial peers took great glee in killing them and sending them off to Hell a bit early. Hell didn't mind, taking their newest soul and offering the Pact right up to another sucker. The Tyrant Hearts naturally realized this and tended to stick close to their Patrons and fend off rivals that way.
"I see that you have come from your training once more. Is there a reason you pursue such a course, when you do not have the power the rest of you kin wield?"
Errant had paused in false politeness. He knew what the Warlock was going to propose, and he was an ideal candidate for a Pact. A Primos in a Powered family devoted to Hell was like the runt of the litter, and he had experienced more then a few times what that meant.
"I have no interest in a Tyrant's Pact, Master Phlenigos. There are other Pacts better suited to my preferences. As for my training, it is merely building a foundation. There are other avenues for the non-Powered to power, you know."
The red eyes flashed for a moment and looked away, caught for a moment in the endless doubt about whether what he had done was worth it.
"So, you have considered this in the past." His hell-eyes narrowed. "Unexpectedly foresighted of you, young master. Is there another Pact you are considering?" he pressed.
"Three," he admitted, and the Warlock's face fell. "But they are all of the more martial path, and certainly well in the future, if at all."
The Warlock sighed in mock defeat, and waved him away. "If you tire of such physical pursuits in the future, come and find me, and I might be able to set you on a different path."
Errant politely bowed to the man, laughing inside, and went on his way.
The Paths of the Cross, the Tome, and the Song were all waiting for him. He smiled thinly, and put the Warlock's words behind him.