***************
Wyatt Graves
More and more days have passed while I perpetually perfect my Ether. It's been two weeks since my stint at Bent began, and I can almost extend Leash out thrice the distance and twice as long time-wise. Willful Strand is close... so close. I'm only missing one last jump to be good enough at it to say I know it.
It's so odd... the more intensely I focus, the more difficult it becomes to use the style of Ether. It seems... that relaxation is a part of letting your mind and Ether mingle, allowing the two to resonate and amplify each other.
And so, once again, I sit in the sands, focusing on my Ether. Recently, Marshall has shown up less and less, the battles getting more and more heated beyond the wall. I can't help but squirm and plead to help, yet he always refuses. Maybe he will let me when I show him a successful Willful Strand.
But while he's only appeared here to guide me two days ago, others have joined me instead. Blake, Silas, and Lennox are constant company whenever they have spare time. The little bugger even made it to the 2nd Sigil yesterday. Blake and Silas are consistently tired but always willing to help me train. Virgil and Tomas show up when they have time as well, but those two are Nightowls. For night combat and reconnaissance, their teams, or Virgil's team and Tomas' lonesome, are sorely needed for the defensive effort.
They are also the reason I've made so much progress. Silas came up with the idea of having one of them try to break apart my Leash while I endeavor to hold it together while practicing Willful Strand, and it's gone a long way. Lennox does love to tear it appear with his increased strength from his newly emerged Freak.
Grinning, I tap the vial in my pocket; Abraham finally returned the Philiam two days ago. He used it to heal Bonfire's burns, but they've been so busy between searching for Motherbound to fighting on the front that he only now had time to deliver it today.
I glance down at the red vial, noting just how crimson it is. The color is all-consuming and stains even the sides of the glass of the container. So far, we've only garnered tidbits of information about it.
For one, it heals tremendously, but it only does so for recent wounds. It basically ignores scars and the like, preferring to taint one's Ether with a crimson blur. Secondly, that bloodiness that comes from it gives all Ether used by the imbiber a dangerous edge, allowing all actions to have more force than they should.
I tested it out yesterday under the supervision of Earl, and from Arbalest to Leash, it enhanced everything with a bloody edge. The Philiam didn't change any of the core traits of a skill or my Ether; it only made them more powerful, longer lasting, and farther reaching.
It did... also affect my reason minorly, giving it a feral tinge. Elizabeth was able to help calm me down, however, alongside a shot to the foot from Primrose. It felt weird, like the whole world was dyed red and asking for me to beat it up.
Though, it did seem lesser compared to how the woman who found Edmund's artifact acted in that vision. I still did get the extreme senses, however. I could smell the battle from the Pit, creating images of the struggle through smell alone, ignoring my hearing entirely.
For a moment, I consider using the Philiam for training, but I disregard it. The artifact should only be used if I have someone to watch over me. The healing is powerful, and so are the enhancements, while the feral part is equally potent.
So, instead, I turn everything toward Leash, allowing myself calm and conjuring it of Ether.
Sitting in the quiet sands of the Pit, surrounded only by dried blood, sweat, and dust, I lie back, letting Leash fall over me. My gaze fixates on the Leash, yet I don't furrow my brows or force the connection. Instead, keeping the thing in my mind, I relax.
I close my eyes, shutting out the distractions of the outside world, and take a deep breath. In the stillness, I seek the tranquility I acquired yesterday, the one that let my Leash extend a whole distance further than usual. The ambient energy of Ether swirls around my hand as it descends over me, a pacifying maelstrom of untapped possibilities.
Moments pass, the Ether above my closed eyes slowly dissipating. But instead of forcing the skill to linger through sheer will, as it has shown time and time again not to be the way, I choose a different path. I surrender myself to the ebb and flow of the Ether, allowing it to guide my actions. I release the tension in my muscles, the racing thoughts in my mind, and let a sense of serenity wash over me.
The sounds of cannons strike at my ears, blasting chaos into the order, but I ignore them. At this point, chaos is order.
As I delve deeper into this placid state, my body plunging inches into the sand, a symbiosis between my consciousness and the Ether begins to form. The substance responds to my tranquil presence, resonating with my inner peace. I can feel it slow, the pull of the Leash more lax and undemanding. The Leash calms as I do, the Ether unfazed and sluggish to move into the air.
With this newfound connection, the longevity and reach of Leash extend beyond their previous limitations. I open my eyes to witness my skill elongate several feet, coiling itself around me. Then, the whip stretches further, its spectral tendrils reaching out with enhanced vigor. I smile, watching it extend, and with every inch it slides, the calm overtakes the din of war.
I revel in this harmonious dance with the Ether. It feels... right for its presence to course through my mind, a small portion of me connected ever after I relent my grasp on the skill. I have found a new path toward mastery, not through forceful control as I typically do, but instead through a tranquil surrender to my Ether. Letting the Ether do as it pleases and taking a portion of me is new, yet not disliked.
Slowly, gradually, unhurriedly, the Ether stretches out to five times the average distance, the trademark of Willful Strand. Laughing and jumping up, I immediately stand and feel the connection break, the Ether quickly dissipating from my movement.
"Fuuuck."
*************
Hours later, I reach up toward the top of the Pit with a Leash, grappling something on the outside of the wall over twenty feet tall. Before, the skill only extended at most four feet. Now, I'm at close to thirty. I can't wait to see what this does with my other skills, as Leash is more a sharp Whip than a leash anymore.
Tugging on the solid Ether in my hand, I sense that it has wrapped around something dense enough to hold my weight, so I climb up. Step by step, I make my way up the wall, frustrated still by the Ether.
While I've managed to use Willful Strand on Leash, I've failed to do it for anything else. Learning Painsforge is still a long road that lies ahead. Hopefully, Marshall still takes it as a success, and we can move on. Because sure, I've learned a whole bunch from him, but I still haven't fully developed how I want to.
I still fight like a rabid dog, according to Virgil. Learning how to throw a punch, duck a swing, and when to backpedal alongside the many other techniques Marshall Travis has shown me is good and all, but it's not what really matters. Plus, much of it I already know from Eleanor's book. Though, Marshall is a far better teacher than some notebook. I'm also thankful for the progress with the Bloody Palm, but still...
Maybe I'm just greedy for power. Who knows.
My feet and hands haul me up the wall, and I expect to find a desolate spot or something when I reach the top, as I never hear much discussion from below. But when I crest the Pit and enter aboveground, I find Marshall standing a foot from the edge, holding onto my Leash. My eyes widen as I realize he was what I grabbed, his strength sufficient to make it seem like a tree or wall I lassoed myself on without a single budge.
The old man chuckles before kicking me in the head, sending me right back into the Pit as I roll backward, head over heels.
"The hell you think you're doing? Get back down there."
I tumble right into the sand, feeling the impact throughout my body. The ground smacks me so hard that air comes out of my body, enunciating my internal curse.
"Fuck~"
Another laugh resounds as boots slam beside me, Marshall yanking me to my feet. I notice blood on his face as he wipes it away, a jovial smile on his lips.
"Good work. I saw what you did there. We can move on now."
Grinning despite the prank he pulled on me, I try to tell him that I haven't mastered it yet, but he waves me off.
"I haven't--"
"I know. That's fine. A bit is enough. You'll get the rest later, whether you are given time or not. Two weeks... not bad. I remember it took me a little over a month and Tomas almost a week. Different aptitudes for different things, though. Anyway, come, sit."
Furrowing my brows in confusion, I sit across from him in a section of unbloodied sand. He speaks once I lay my ass on the spot he tapped with his boot before sitting himself.
"I want to know more about you before we move on. I want to know your strengths, your weaknesses, and your worries. I want to know your family, your past, and your future. Only in this way can I help you the most. The next step for you is to create your own way of fighting. Yes, you are a brawler like me, but your skills are far more nuanced than punching hard. So, get to talking. Start wherever you like."
His request is bizarre, but I'm not one to refuse. At this point, everyone knows as much about my family as I do, maybe more. And so, I start with my childhood, working my way through the years.
"So... I was born seventeen years ago and raised by a demon's clone..."
My story works slowly, but with almost every step, Marshall calls me out on something asking a question about my life.
From having to explain Aniwye to my double childhood, I run through it all with him as the old man nods along. It takes an hour to merely get to the point I met Edmund, another one before I reach anywhere of significance, namely Edmund's death. Frustration builds as I speak, the past coming out, but the Unyielding Wall puts a hand on my shoulder, encouraging me.
"Go on. The past is over. You've already beaten it. Those demons are gone. And you'll be stronger for those to come."
Nodding, I keep going, though I speed up and lessen my explanations significantly for time's sake. After another hour, I reach entering Bent, ending my story with what he asked, my strengths and weaknesses.
"I've been told that I am fearless, for even The Cabin calls me the Intrepid Strife, able to face down any terror. But at the same time, I'm starting to think facing down those terrors is pointless. They are all so powerful, like you, and I'm running low on time. How long is left until She awakens? A year at most? Does anyone even know?"
Marshall's face falls to my worries, his countenance joining mine. But the old man only is discouraged for a second before he rises again, his eyes striking mine.
"Vincent, the Prime, gave Eli, Ed, Maddox, Joseph, and me an order about a timetable from whatever faraway land he was in. This was… two years ago. He warned that the one below was shuffling, nearing wakefulness and that he would do what he could to prevent it and postpone it. The warning was that we had, at most, five years and, at the minimum, three. The letter was short, delivered by the Blight Raven, and ended with a short order. He said to keep humanity alive, under any circumstances, and within any means, until he finished his preparations."
The Unyielding Wall pauses, his fist tightening a fistful of sand as he speaks. The actions of Eli Weiss might make a bit more sense if they are in direct compliance with the Prime's orders. Any means necessary, huh?
"I do not know what he is preparing, but I do know it must be massive. Undercurrents swell between Eli and Vincent, and I worry for the result. It is likely to change the world, whatever he is doing. No one knows the exact timeframe we are dealing with here, for we can only believe that our eldest can handle the threats thrown at us. Even I am but a pawn, Wyatt, when it comes to the games of Gods and those who stand at the Gate. At most ten in the world stand at the Gate, however, most are hidden, sleeping, or missing."
Again, the old man halts as I still have not heard any reason to continue. All he has said so far has made things seem even more pointless. And when he speaks once more, it starts with a sigh.
"When I was seventeen years old, I shouted out into an empty room that I would defeat the forces of evil in this world. Back then… I lived alone, my parents missing in action from years of being Hunters. And for the next ten years of my life, I suffered the consequences of proclaiming my purpose. For years, I battled, I trained, and those around me died constantly. As I got older, I realized that there were no real winners or no real losers in warfare; there are only those who survive. This world isn't a mouse versus a Goliath. It's a watch eternally swaying between the dusk and the dawn, and the brighter the light shone, the darker a shadow it cast as it ticks toward damnation."
Marshall stops himself, his eyes falling to the sands below our bodies, the eyes in his sockets shifting constantly. But eventually, they quit, and the orbs turn to me, a gravitas dwelling inside.
"We are only human, Wyatt. And while many say we are limited by our potential, our circumstances, and our times, I would refuse. Our limits are either self-imposed or garnered over many years of failings and wounds. You? You are bound by nothing but that which you believe you can do. Too young to be held down by endless faults and already too mighty to truly self-impose a limit by yourself. There is a reason why the powerful become powerful young."
The old man taps a crooked yet firm finger against my chest, amplifying his point with force. My mind can't help but imagine the opposite of his words and how he has grown so old and limited over the years. If his words were valid, wouldn't he be the strongest in the world? The old man thinks differently.
"You might wonder why I do not stand at the pinnacle then, which is simple. I may be strong, of will, of body, and of mind, but I've made too many mistakes. And in all honesty, the four above me… they are all monsters in their own rights. Ed, with his skill in Ether and manipulation of Demonsbane, Maddox with his grit and ruthlessness that exceeds even that of demons, Eli with his cunning that trumps the Viceroy's, and finally, Vincent, with the firmest will I've ever found built atop the most fantastic combat skills on the continent. That man… he doesn't even need Ether to kill most things. Anything below an Angel is simply a child to him. Even some Angels."
Marshall still isn't providing me with permission to speak, even as I attempt to. Instead, he ignores me and continues.
"Wait before you speak. Listening is important to us all. Learning and growing is what separates humans from the rest, from angels, from demons, and from Gods. They all develop, just as we do, but we learn so much faster with so much more depth. Those above, even me, might seem insurmountable, but fear not, young man. Do you want to hear a well-kept secret?"
I nod instantly, wanting to know what he has to say that is so critical to my situation. The Unyielding Wall nods as he relinquishes information that makes me gasp.
"The Prime, when he became a Dominion, was only twenty-one years old. That elderly man has stood upon the steps for nearly a century, grasping for any way forward while defending our lands. The First? Most believe he was similarly young. Even as for me, I was twenty-five when I became an Angel. Most are young when they reach their peaks. The most rapid development is when you are young; the mind and body are malleable. But that is not all. The older one gets, the more responsibilities they have, and the less time they have to perfect themselves."
Marshall shakes his head sadly, lamenting on lost time. The lost light in his eyes shines brightly as if looking back onto a past that he misses.
"As at the Angelic Realm, Wyatt, prerequisites for advancement change drastically. I don't know if Johnny has told you or not, but to go from the 7th to 8th Sigils requires far more than before that. You need a second Absolution, a Proof, and you must develop a Dzil. It is simply a requirement, for no one ever who has gone beyond the Power threshold doesn't have one. The 8th to 9th are even more difficult, requiring the step above a Dzil and complete mastery over Solid Ether. Only Vincent knows the requirements for a tenth, but even then, he is notably missing the biggest. These things... take so much time that only those with plenty can master them. And despite what some may say against Vincent... he does still fight. We simply cannot see his battles. The weak cannot witness what one might call a Demigod fight, because, frankly, that is what Vincent, the Warmaster, and the Lords are. Some other beings out there, too."
The many pieces of information all strike me like a series of cannonballs. Were they all that young? Really? So… I still have hope? But does Marshall? Is there a chance for him to still advance? I can't not ask the question.
"What about you? Are you at your limit? You have a Dzil, right? Maybe even two?"
Marshall nods, to both of my main questions, sinking my chest.
"Yes. I believe so. There is a chance for me to grow, but it is slim. It is simply not worth exploring. Better I aid you all in your explorations. The many mistakes of my past hold me back. I chose the wrong road to go down for my Sigil, and I don't believe I can reach another Absolution. To do so… I would have to achieve something so impossible I can't even imagine it."
As he finishes, I fall quiet, but the old man is unwilling to sit still. Standing, he hauls me up by my arm to my feet. When I reach my balance across from him, he points to the center of the Pit.
"Now, that's enough depressive talk. Let's teach you how to really fight, shall we?"