Martia's breath came in short, hurried gasps as she navigated the labyrinthine streets of the ancient city, her senses heightened with anticipation and a twinge of fear.
The closer she got to the centre of the commotion, the more palpable the tension in the air became. It was as if the very atmosphere of the place was charged with spirituality, one that whispered of ancient aspirants and sulfur.
Above her, a sinister silhouette cut through the night sky, a creature so out of place in the realm of mortals that Martia couldn't help but hiss under her breath, "Creature of the night."
The being, with leathery wings that unfurled from its hunched back, seemed to patrol the air, a sentinel of the dark awaiting its next command. Its presence alone was enough to send a shiver down Martia's spine, but she pressed on, driven by a force she could scarcely understand.
The sound of its wings beating against the cool night air, "Pataa, pata, pata," was eerily rhythmic, a dark lullaby that seemed to herald the onset of something terrifying and awe-inspiring.
Martia couldn't tear her gaze away from the creature, even as she quickened her pace, her feet barely touching the ground as she moved.
Martia, a young adventurer from Mount Olaander in the Bay of Kings, chafed under the stifling peace of her homeland.
While the Bay boasted hidden wonders aplenty, its established authority left little room for daring exploits. Unlike "adventures" peddled by merchants - slay a rampaging beast, quell a minor uprising aspirants - true adventure craved wings to soar, not cages to rattle. The Bay offered comfort, not challenge. It wasn't the lack of mystery, but the stifling order that gnawed at her adventurous spirit.
However, her adventurous spirit was ablaze at this moment.
As she finally came into full view of the battleground, the scene that unfolded before her eyes was one of malevolent beauty.
Two more creatures of the night; their forms shrouded in shadowy garments, engaged in a fierce confrontation with Severin. The young Cipherist's movements were fluid and precise, a dance of sparks as he wielded his dirk with an expertise that belied his experience.
His opponents, mere brutes creatures borne of darkness, struggled to match his every move, their own powers a mirror to the darkness that birthed them.
The creatures of the night, devoid of unique powers, epitomized sheer brutishness.
Their cognitive depth was as shallow as their combat finesse, limited to basic hand-to-hand engagements devoid of any nuance or strategy. Yet, their physical prowess mirrored that of freshly resurrected zombies, rendering them unnaturally robust—capable of rivalling even a Sequence 9 warrior in sheer might.
It was this formidable strength they wielded to subdue Severin.
Severin, a cipherist following the divine path of Lacenrist, possessed a commendable strength, though not exceptional. A direct assault from these nocturnal entities promised, at best, to leave him incapacitated; at worst, it spelt certain doom.
Armed with this insight, Aulus deftly employed the creatures at his disposal, orchestrating a symphony of skirmishes with calculated precision.
The two humanoid monstrosities surged forward, their relentless assault aimed at destabilizing Severin, while the airborne creature surveyed the battlefield from above, furnishing Aulus with invaluable vigilance on the ever-shifting perimeters of the confrontation.
Aulus harboured no illusions regarding Severin's tenure on the island; two weeks? perhaps even longer, had granted the Cipherist ample opportunity to sow the seeds of allegiance among the island's denizens.
The seasoned Aulus, however, refused to succumb to complacency. Aware of Severin's mastery in the craft of manipulation, Aulus remained vigilant about his perimeters, determined not to fall victim to Severin's intricate web of deceit and subterfuge.
Aulus, meanwhile, stood at a safe distance, his attention focused on the winged impish creature that hovered above, gauging its reactions and gestures.
Martia could see the concentration etched on his face, the silent communication between him and the creature above. Every so often, the impish being would dive, executing another attack in Aulus's direction, a living weapon guided by its master.
Martia's senses were assailed by the acrid scent of sulfur mingled with the earthy remnants of scorched buildings—a haunting testament to the ferocity of recent fires and battles. Amidst the symphony of destruction, where clashes of steel reverberated and spiritual energies crackled through the air, Martia found herself ensnared, spellbound by the battle unfolding before her.
Martia bided her time, patiently discerning the opportune moment and manner in which to insert herself into the fray. It dawned upon her then that she was not a mere bystander in this conflict; her presence bore significance beyond happenstance. Though the exact nature of her role remained shrouded in uncertainty, its importance was unmistakable—a thread intricately woven into the fabric of the impending confrontation.
Martia's arrival did not go unnoticed; her presence reverberated through the tense atmosphere, her footsteps echoing ominously in Severin's ears long before he laid eyes upon her. Similarly, Old Man Aulus, attuned to the perimeter of the battlefield, detected her approach via the impish creature's gestures.
Previously as Severin registered the sound of approaching footsteps, a wave of trepidation washed over him, mingling with a flicker of cautious optimism. Contemplating the newfound variable introduced by Maria's arrival, Severin had weighed his options with a mind sharpened by necessity. With each footfall drawing nearer, he found himself speculating on the identity of the newcomer, mentally sifting through a shortlist of potential adversaries.
Marcellus emerged as the most probable candidate in Severin's calculations—a familiar variable whose predictability offered a modicum of comfort amidst the uncertainty of battle. Martia, however, posed a far greater threat, her presence tipping the precarious balance of power against Severin's favour.
Yet, it was the mere thought of Edwin's potential involvement that sent a shiver down Severin's spine.
For Edwin is no ordinary combatant; he is a Jinx—a son of providence.
In a realm where every aspirant vied for supremacy, the prospect of facing Edwin on the battlefield was a grim reminder of the capricious whims of fate, where victory and defeat hung precariously in the balance.
As Severin's attention oscillated between the brutal onslaught of two-and-a-half brutes and the presence of Martia, his combat finesse wavered imperceptibly. His movements, once precise and fluid, faltered momentarily—a lapse too subtle for most to discern, yet not lost on Martia's keen eye.
With a calculated motion, Martia's hand gravitated toward the hilt of her weapon, fingers curling around the familiar grip with practised ease. The metallic rasp of steel against leather filled the air as she drew her blade, the glint of the breaking day dancing along its polished edge.
In that fleeting moment, a silent declaration echoed in the air—an unspoken vow to join the fray.
Then, with a thunderous cry that reverberated across the battlefield, Martia surged forward, her figure a blur of motion as she threw herself into the heart of the conflict.
In the maelstrom of combat, Martia wielded her blade with a ferocity tempered by unyielding resolve, her every strike infused with a conviction that defied the encroaching tide of adversity. Engaged in a skirmish against an opponent wielding power two sequences above her own, she faced the daunting challenge with a stoic determination that belied her apparent disadvantage.
As the clash of steel resounded through the chaos, a subtle curve graced Martia's lips—a silent acknowledgement of the strategic advantage afforded by Old Man Aulus's presence.
In the relentless dance of battle, where cunning and guile often held sway, Severin's usual tactics of deceit and manipulation found themselves thwarted, he needed time to manipulate people.
In a typical confrontation, Severin would have exploited any opportunity to undermine Martia's resolve before she even had the chance to draw her blade. Yet, in the presence of Aulus, Severin's schemes were futile.
In the intricate hierarchy of sequences, the immutable laws of power dictated that the quality and quantity of a lower sequence could never surpass that of a higher sequence. This fundamental principle, ingrained in the very fabric of the Mytical universe, served as an unyielding barrier that delineated the boundaries of strength and prowess.
The disparity between sequences became increasingly pronounced with each ascending tier, the chasm widening to reveal the stark contrast in abilities. For aspirants navigating the perilous path of advancement, the rule of thumb was clear: a mere one-sequence gap could be navigated with cautious optimism, but any rift wider than that transformed into a precarious gamble, the odds stacked unforgivingly against the daring challenger.
Thus, for aspirants below the fifth sequence, the accepted wisdom dictated a cautious approach, a meticulous calculation of risks weighed against potential gains. To venture into battle against an opponent of the lower sequence was to court danger with reckless abandon, tempting fate with the slim hope of defying the natural order of things.
"Natural order? Hah!" Martia scoffed the very word leaving a bitter taste on her tongue.
Order, to her, meant stifling predictability, a life devoid of challenge. Mount Olaander, with its rigid protocols and veiled secrets, might have called it peace, but she saw it as a gilded cage. Whispers of schemes and conspiracies, however, ignited a spark in her spirit. That, that was the true natural order for a warrior - to confront the unknown, to unravel mysteries, to dance with danger.
Conflict, for Martia, wasn't just a challenge, it was a song, a melody sung with clashing steel and the roar of the untamed.
In the blink of an eye, the momentum of battle shifted, swayed by Martia's relentless tempo. Severin, once confident in his ability to manipulate the brutish creatures to his advantage, now found himself teetering on the precipice of defeat, each successive strike from Martia bringing him perilously close to the edge.
Where once Severin had exploited the creatures' raw strength, relying on his own skill, tempo, and nuance to outmaneuver them, Martia's presence altered the dynamic entirely. With her ability to match Severin's tempo and surpass him in finesse, she rendered his previous advantage null and void, leaving him vulnerable to the combined onslaught of both Martia and the creatures.
As Martia engaged Severin in a deadly dance of blades, the creatures seized the opportunity to unleash decisive strikes of their own, their movements synchronized with deadly precision. Yet, despite their coordinated efforts, Severin stood firm, his deft manoeuvres blocking their assaults with a grace that belied the overwhelming pressure bearing down upon him.
With each impact, Aulus felt the weight of the creatures' blows, the force of their attacks threatening to overwhelm him. Sensing the impending danger, he braced himself for the decisive strike that he knew was imminent—a strike aimed squarely at his chest, a blow that promised to tip the scales of battle irrevocably.