A deafening CRACK resonated through the Colosseum as Milo and Lok clashed with the hulking sentinel. The clash ended as the boys jumped back to make room for a second assault. The sentinel moved towards them with its four arms swinging the lances with lethality, each motion sounding a whistle as it slices the air.
Milo ran towards the sentinel as his eyes narrowed with concentration. He slid across the arena floor, narrowly evading the sweeping arc of the sentinel's dual lances. His cyan aura shimmered around him, digging his heels into the ground to stand as he continued closing the gap.
The sentinel, its red aura flaring like fire, solidified its position with a quaking step, unleashing another series of swings. Milo's sword met one of the lances with a shattering clash, creating a minor shockwave that swept across the pit, bringing out gasps from the crowd. Straining against the sentinel, Milo pressed his boots into the soil, pushing back with every ounce of his strength.
But the sentinel wasn't finished. A second pair of arms shot out, bringing the other lance around in a sweeping arc aimed at Milo. His breathing stopped - there was no time to react. But then, the clang of metal on wood sounded out.
Lok, covered in his own vibrant green aura, intersected the path of the incoming attack. His dagger clashed with the lance, stopping the near-inevitable threat to Milo.
The spectators let out deafening cheers, their cries of excitement at the fantastic display of teamwork by the two boys. Esron, watching from the stands, widened his eyes in as the emotions of thrill and excitement consumed him.
-
In the not-so-distant past, a solitary chamber lay nestled within the greenery at the pinnacle of Primdrasil, its walls fashioned from interwoven vines and columns of spiraling branches. Windows, cut into the walls of bark, welcomed the soft rays of the setting sun, creating illuminating spots of light that fell over a variety of furniture. There was an aged desk made of gnarled wood; shelves that mimicked flowering vines, containing different scrolls and books.
Upon the desk sat a single small illuminating flower bud. Esron sat hunched over this desk, the glowing flower bud casting a light over the parchment beneath his pen. His brow was furrowed in concentration, the faint creaking of his chair and the rhythmic scratch of his quill were the only sounds in the room.
There was a soft rustling of leaves at the entrance. The leaves parted to make way for Risea's arrival. He moved quietly in the room, as to not distract his older brother, towards the desk. Esron looked up from his parchment, meeting Risea's eyes.
"Did you deliver the boys to Gabble?" He asked, a hint of apprehension lacing his voice. Risea responded with a straight face.
"Yes... as we once were" he answered. Then, as if a crack appeared on a perfectly crafted sculpture, his stoicism gave way.
Esron's shoulders sagged, relief flooding his features. He leaned back, his elbows settling onto his desk.
"I thought I'd have to persuade you more, I'm glad you complied." he admitted, an unnatural vulnerability in his voice.
He paused as he looked down. His fingers moved over the wooden grains of his desk, tracing the patterns on the age-old wood.
"Those who try to stop the wheel of destiny... get crushed by it."" Esron quoted.
-
In an abrupt whirl of time, the stage was once again set in the present, inside the ruthless theatre of the colosseum, where the specter of danger loomed large and life hung by the precarious thread of a well-timed blade.
As Esron's voice echoed through the abyss of time, Milo, with a dancer's grace and a warrior's fervor, parried the sentinel's deadly lunge. With a nimble dash, he slipped past the hulking wooden form, his sword slicing through the back of the guardian's legs like a hot knife through butter.
Lok, the heart of the storm, rode the shockwave of his previous clash with the sentinel, using it as a springboard to launch himself into the air. With a gymnast's agility, he flipped over the towering figure, his blade whistling a deadly aria as it etched emerlad grooves on the sentinel's wide shoulders.
The sentinel howled. It wasn't a roar or a growl, but a mournful moan that echoed across the colosseum. It was an eerie sound, something between the croak of a dying tree and the lament of a wounded beast. A chill ran down the spine of the boys, goosebumps prickling their skin.
The wooden sentinel responded to the barrage of attacks in an unexpected way. A hardened shell began to form around its form, the rich brown hue of its bark darkening, shifting to an unyielding umber. It was a metamorphosis.
Milo, reading the cues, sprang into action. His eyes, sharp as a falcon's, found the last patch of oakwood color disappearing under the encroaching darkness. He sprinted towards it, his blade a streak of silver in the sunlight. But he was a moment too late; his blade struck the sentinel just as the final patch hardened, bouncing off with a resounding clang.
In response, the sentinel whirled around, flinging Milo away with a casual backhand. "Milo!" Lok's voice sliced through the ensuing gasp from the crowd, echoing with concern and surprise.
But Milo was no ordinary opponent. In the midst of his flight, he flipped, cat-like, landing on his feet with a slight stumble. A bruise was already forming on his arm where the sentinel had struck him. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, his blue aura flaring up around him like an ethereal flame. A cocky smirk danced on his lips as he taunted the sentinel.
Lok watched Milo, his eyes squinting in the bright sunlight of the arena. He recognized that smug grin on his friend's face, the one that announced mischief and surprise. "Milo's about to show off his Gaia," he mused. A glance at his father and uncle confirmed his thoughts. They were watching Milo with an intensity that was seldom seen, every line of their bodies taut with anticipation.
Without a word of warning, Milo's aura contracted, his figure blurring with the sudden movement. A gust of wind kicked up the dust around him, obscuring him from sight for a moment. The crowd gasped, their collective voices rising to a crescendo. When the dust cleared, Milo was no longer there.
He had reappeared right in front of the sentinel. His movements were a blur, too fast for the naked eye to follow. His blade, a streak of silver in the harsh daylight, danced around the sentinel's torso, slashing at the hardened bark with a ferocity that was stunning.
The sturdy layer began to break, chipping away under the relentless attack. Just when the sentinel attempted to retaliate, Milo vanished from the front, appearing behind it. His departure from the front was met with Lok's swift arrival, his blade sinking into the sentinel's exposed torso.
The entire sequence of events unfolded within mere seconds, leaving the crowd, and even the sentinel, in awed disbelief. It was a spectacle of raw speed and precision.
The immense sentinel faltered under the force of Lok's assault, swaying like a towering oak buffeted by a furious storm. It started to topple, it's impressive girth descending with the inevitability of a felled tree.
Time itself seemed to bow to the drama of the moment, stretching into a languid drawl as the sentinel's bulk began its slow descent. In a masterful display of agility, Lok planted a foot against the falling mass and leapt away, his daggers wrenched free with a thunderous crack.
Just as gravity started claiming the sentinel, an iridescent blur surged forward. Milo, his movements fluid and near unseen, brought the hilt of his sword crashing against the sentinel's back. The air trembled with the impact, a resonating boom echoing through the vast Colosseum, shaking the ground beneath. Cracks spider-webbed across the wooden sentinel's once impenetrable shell, splintering the hardened bark into fragile shards. A faint upward motion graced the sentinel as the force of the blow defied its downward momentum.
The sentinel, now teetering, swiveled towards Milo, rage glinting in its eyes. But it had forgotten Lok, who was already lunging in for a new onslaught of vicious slashes. Milo darted forward, a swift ghost of movement, visibly outpacing Lok. Their blades sang in a chorus of steel and wood, each hit driving the sentinel back, every dodge a tribute to their superior speed and skill.
The sentinel attempted a counterattack, its lances whirling in a frenzied flurry of desperation. But Milo and Lok moved as if they danced with the rhythm of the wind, their bodies twisting and twirling, evading the clumsy strikes with an ease that was almost insulting.
Blow after blow landed on the faltering sentinel, its movements growing sluggish, its fury diminishing with each punishing strike. The glowing embers in its eyes began to dwindle, flickering weakly against the relentless onslaught. Then, with one final whirl of desperate energy, it lost control, spinning from the accumulated momentum of the twin assault.
And with a resounding thud that shook the entire arena, the once formidable sentinel fell flat on its face, its six limbs sprawled out in a pathetic display of defeat. The crowd exploded into a roar of ecstatic cheers.
-
In the face of the deafening cheers, time spun backward. The tapestry of the present blurred and faded, replaced by the hushed whispers of a shared history. The roar of the crowd gave way to the muted stillness of Esron's study, a sanctuary bathed in the glow of soft light, a haven of quiet solitude. Esron's gaze fixed on the desk, his mind a labyrinth of thoughts as complex as the patterns he studied.
Finally, he broke the silence, his voice as soft as the rustle of leaves in the quiet of nightfall. "Risea," he began, "What do you suppose Milo's Gaia will manifest as?"
A ripple of amusement played on Risea's face. He leaned back on the wall, his arms folding across his chest. His eyes sparkled with a secret knowledge as a quiet chuckle escaped him. "Oh, Es," he said, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "I believe we already know the answer to that, don't we?"