As Chief Constable Bramwell departed, leaving his heavy words lingering in the frosty air, a stern-faced officer stepped forward, her voice ringing out clear and authoritative, initiating the commencement of the exams. "Candidates! To your marks for the duo races!"
The line formed swiftly, pairs of candidates side by side, the atmosphere buzzing with a competitive edge. Lars glanced nervously at Alistair, who gave her an encouraging nod. "Let's show them what we've got," he murmured with a grin that didn't quite meet his eyes.
"Ready... Set..." the officer shouted, and with the sharp crack of her staff against the ground, the candidates surged forward.
Lars stumbled slightly at the start, her boots slipping against the slick ground. Her breath came in short gasps, each one punctuated with a half-panicked, "Almost there, almost there!" Despite having barely covered a dozen meters, her voice was thick with exaggerated fatigue, a comedic contrast to her actual plight.
Alistair, ever the encouraging partner, matched his pace awkwardly with hers, casting small smiles her way. "Keep pushing, Lars! We're... ah, doing great!" His voice was rich with forced optimism.
Around them, other candidates darted ahead like arrows from bows. A duo, Maston nodded towards in approval, dashed past, their feet barely touching the ground, while another pair exchanged confident, sneering glances back at the struggling Lars and Alistair.
From the sidelines, Vonthal, Maston, and Laurette stood observing, their expressions ranging from amused to critical. "Ah, see that pair? Swift as the west wind. Now those two have the makings of fine enforcers," Maston commented, his gaze following a particularly fast duo.
Vonthal hummed in agreement, her eyes sharp. "Indeed. But look at those two at the backâ€"what was the girl's name? Lars? Quite the opposite of swift. More like a snail in a footrace."
Laurette chuckled, the sound light and airy. "Perhaps she's in the wrong field. Comedy, not combat, would suit her better."
Meanwhile, the race continued, and Lars, with Alistair's unwavering support, pushed through her initial sluggishness. Despite their efforts, when they finally crossed the finish line, they were indeed last. A small crowd of early finishers, including some who had mocked Lars, watched as they arrived, out of breath and spirits slightly faltered.
"What a race, right? We definitely brought up the rear quite magnificently!" Lars joked weakly, trying to dispel the disappointment with a bit of humor, her chest heaving.
'Craaaap! That took everything out of me!'
Alistair laughed, patting her back gently. "We might have set a new record there, Lars. Slowest duo in the history of the exams. But don't worry, it's not just about speed. We've got more chances."
As the racers caught their breath and prepared for the next challenge, Vonthal's voice carried across to them, discussing with Laurette and Maston. "It's not only about physical swiftness. Remember Bramwell's speech, honor, sacrifice, cunning. That's what defines a true enforcer."
Maston nodded thoughtfully. "True, and sometimes the quietest waters hide the deepest currents. We may yet see surprises."
Laurette, still skeptical but intrigued, added, "Let's hope so. Otherwise, our defense against the Plague Doctor might rely heavily on the faster candidates."
Maston thought, 'Tch. At this rate…'
The next event unfolded near a towering rock structure, rigged with ropes and rupees, each shimmering stone representing potential points. A collective air of anticipation prickled through the crowd as pairs were again lined up for their turn.
Lars, already slightly disheartened from the race, eyed the climbing wall with visible apprehension. Next to her, Alistair's unwavering support served as her anchor. "Just take it one grip at a time," he advised, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly.
As the signal to start blared, Lars and Alistair approached the wall. Lars clasped the first rope tightly, a nervous chuckle escaping her. "Hope this goes better than the race," she quipped, attempting to lighten her own tension.
As other pairs began smoothly ascending, Lars clumsily fumbled with the nearest rupee, her laughter tinged with an anxious edge. Each attempt to secure a rupee seemed to end with it clattering against the rocks, slipping from her shaky grasp. "Well, look at that, butterfingers strikes again," she joked lamely to Alistair, who offered a sympathetic smile in return.
Meanwhile, Alistair climbed with more finesse but always paused, stretching out a hand to assist Lars. Each of her stumbles and missteps drew snickers and whispered comments from other candidates, their mocking tones drifting up the wall like a taunting breeze.
Laughter came notably from a duo several ropes over who watched Lars's ongoing struggle. "Maybe she thinks she'll find her talent at the bottom of the wall!" one of them called out, eliciting chuckles from nearby climbers.
Alistair shot a glower towards the hecklers, then turned to Lars with a firm voice. "Ignore them, Lars. You're doing just fine. Let's focus on getting to the top, together."
Hauling herself up another few feet, Lars reached for a particularly elusive rupee. With a stretch that seemed to strain every muscle, her fingers brushed against the glinting stone, only for her grip to slip, sending her swinging gently back against the rock face. "I'm really 'rocking' this test, aren't I?" she half-laughed, half-groaned to Alistair, who couldn't help but chuckle at her attempt to stay jovial under pressure.
Despite her struggles, Alistair stayed by her side, matching his pace with hers, often sacrificing his own progress to ensure she could reclaim her footing or grip. His loyalty did not go unnoticed by the instructors, including Vonthal, who watched with a thoughtful expression.
Vonthal leaned over to Maston, remarking quietly, "The boy has heart, staying back like that. Shows leadership potential, wouldn't you say?"
Maston nodded, replying, "Indeed, but the girl, Lars... it's not just about heart. It's also about skill, and frankly, she's weighing him down."
Laurette, joining the discussion, added her perspective. "True, but courage in the face of mockery has its own merit. Perhaps she lacks skill, but not spirit."
As Lars continued, her every slip and self-deprecating joke reinforced her determination not to let her multiple setbacks defeat her spirit. Another rupee slipped from her grasp, and she threw a strained smile Alistair's way. "Well, at least I'm consistent, huh?"
A soft murmur of encouragement came from some of the more sympathetic onlookers, their earlier mockery softening into admiration for her perseverance.
Gratefully, Lars and Alistair eventually reached the top, substantially behind the others but triumphant in their own small victory. Alistair patted Lars' back, saying earnestly, "That was tough, but you didn't give up. That counts for more than speed or skill sometimes."
Panting, Lars nodded, feeling a mix of relief and lingering embarrassment, "Thanks, Alistair. I guess sometimes, just hanging in there is all you can do."
As they descended, their instructors, including Vonthal, Maston, and Laurette, evaluated their performance. "She might not be the fastest or the most graceful," Laurette conceded, watching Lars' relieved descent, "but she's got heart. And sometimes, that's the seed from which true capability grows."
Their voices trailed off as the pair reached the ground, and while Lars knew she hadn't shone in the traditional sense, Alistair's unwavering support and the rare nods of respect from some instructors planted seeds of confidence in her. She was ready to face the next challenge, not just to pass, but to prove her worth beyond just physical prowess.
As the sun reached its zenith over the testing grounds, casting deep shadows behind the obstacles now dormant, candidates gathered in clusters around stretched out blankets, unfolding parcels of food provided for the exam break. Conversational snippets about personal scores and test difficulties filled the air, a mix of excitement and nerves twining through each word.
Off to the side, Alistair and Lars settled under an ancient oak, their lunch spread modestly before them. Around them, ebullient chatter surged about the upcoming final test and shared dreams of joining the elite ranks of the Empire's enforcers.
"You did well back there," Alistair said, nodding towards the rock wall. "Staying determined all through."
Lars gave a wry smile, playing with a strand of her hair. "Thanks that uh, K-Kind of you to say, but let's face it, I was hardly the star of the show. I SUCK."
'It was embarrassing. I ran all night to prepare for this. What good can I actually do in this state?'
Alistair paused, his expression turning thoughtful. "Lars, if you don't mind me asking, what's driving you? What's your goal in all of this?"
She took a slow bite of her sandwich, pondering over her words. "It's crazy, honestly."
"I've heard crazier things."
"Its him. It's Gunn," she began cautiously, "the Plague Doctor. I think he's misunderstood. I want to show that there's more to the Empire, and him. Maybe... maybe transform how people see both."
Alistair's brow furrowed. "Misunderstood? Lars, he's killed countless innocents, not to mention our fellow enforcers. How can you defend him?"
Lars sighed, her eyes distant. "I believe there's a reason behind his actions. Something darker, perhaps, not just chaos for its own sake. Gunn is young, about our age. There's got to be more to his story."
Alistair's voice sharpened, "If you're falling for a murderer's tragic backstory, if you're falling in love with a murdering psychopath who came back from the dead just to kill more, just say so. But remember, those 'reasons' led to real deaths. Innocent lives snuffed out."
Lars frantically almost dropped her sandwich out of nervousness, "Lo-Love?! No no no no, what even is that anyway? Something I'VE definitely never been in, haha. But isn't it our job to look deeper? To understand fully before we judge?" Lars countered quietly, her gaze steady. "If there's a chance to change things for the better, shouldn't we take it? I just want people to live happily."
"You're dreaming, Lars. The Empire might have its flaws, but it stands against chaos, against destruction. Gunn champions neither peace nor order. How can you even consider sympathy for him?" Alistair pushed back, his voice rising slightly with emotion.
Lars looked at him, her expression serious. "W-Well, because! If he's just a monster, then we only breed fear and retaliation. If there's a reason, a real, profound reason, maybe we can address the root rather than just fight the symptoms."
Alistair shook his head, struggling to align with her perspective. "And if you're wrong? What if by looking for a 'reason' you overlook the pain he's caused? He could kill you. And in your state, you stand no chance. He fought head to head with the Executioner Mortimor, Gunn would rip you to shreds."
"I realize I'm not physically capable of a lot of things. I know I'm not the best at everything. I'm not very fast, strong, and I hate it. I'm struggling to find the good qualities within me. People say I'm beautiful all the time, but is that really a gift? I have to do something, o-or maybe I'm just trying to persuade myself that I actually have a talent. But I have to believe there's a better way than perpetuating a cycle of fear and violence. Perhaps Gunn once thought he could change things, too, before... before everything." Lars's voice trailed off, filled with a mix of resolve and doubt.
Lunch continued quietly, each lost in their thoughts. Around them, the laughter and animated talk about the future role of an enforcer under the Empire's banner drifted like a distant echo. Lars's words hung heavily between them, a stark contrast to the assured pride of their peers.
Alistair sat to himself, his hand shaking, looking off into the distance as his eyes strained red like he just finished crying.
'She's crazy..she's fucking crazy…defending that monster!'
Bramwell, standing on a high tower, looked down at the exam takers.
'They have promise, yes. But are they strong enough to face the King of Rot, the Plague Doctor…Gunn? How strong is their will? Will they protect civilians if they are in trouble? How many can they save if Gunn's poison mist captizles against the roads? Can they protect my daughter if I'm not around?!'
Bramwell clenched his fists, but Mortimor came up behind him, saying, "I have finished tallying the scores for the first two exams."
Bramwell took a deep breath, asking, "And what of Catherine?"
"She's in the infirmary."
"Who did it?"
"She won't say. She's asleep."
"Someone fucked her up, in my city? Someone strong enough to beat her?"
"You care about her a lot."
"She helps my daughter. Helps her walk, teaches her how to do equations and such. Teaches her how to cook, she's like a mom to her, and a wife to me. Catherine has been through many failed marriages, and she only finds solace within me and the Empire. She's harboring so much pain inside, she said she doesn't think about them when she's around my daughter and me. We changed her life. I can't let anything like this happen and not do anything. Leave here, and go to sight where they fought, and see what you can gather from it. Take a few constables with you. Let me know if there's any sign of Gunn there."
"Right away." Mortimor turned around, and before he could walk away—
"—And Mortimor."
"Yes, Bramwell?"
"Failure is not an option. Come back with good intel."
"Of course, Bramwell."
Over to the side Maston, Laurette, and Vonthal watched.
Vonthal sighed, "Should we go be nosey and ask what's going on?"
Laurette replied, "Leave it. If Bramwell wants to let us know what's going on, he'll tell us himself."
Maston crossed his arms, "Damn that. We're a part of the council, we should know everything. And stop worshiping that man. Stop kissing his ass."
Laurette answered, "It's called respect, not worship."
"You just don't want him blowing your fucking head off, like he did the last one that was in your position."
Vonthal tried to break it up, "Let's not fight, please. Not here, not in front of Bramwell. I don't want him to know what's going on. Nothing that will provoke him."
"..You know nothing. We should be focused on the exams. We have many promising recruits. We'll keep an eye on them. They might be the furtive of the Empire."
The final exam unfolded in a sprawling training field littered with dilapidated buildings, eerily echoing a ghost town. Amongst the shadows, grotesque automatons roamed, programmed for destruction and chaos, a true test of each candidate's mettle. Scattered throughout the pitfall-laden landscape were mannequins representing survivors, each rescue scoring critical points.
The sun was a harsh overseer as candidates dispersed, weapons in hand, determination etching their faces. The air was thick with the electric tension of approaching combat and the faint whir of mechanical gears.
"Ha..ha…it's so hot!" Lars yelled at herself.
'I'm already worn out and we just came back from break!'
Lars and Alistair, teamed as usual, approached a half-collapsed building. Lars was visibly struggling, her arms shaking slightly under the weight of an oversized gun, clearly too much for her slender frame. The weapon, intended for candidates with higher physical prowess, seemed an ill fit for her, and her grip adjusted constantly in seeking some comfort.
'It's so heavy! Why are they so heavy?!' Lars cried in her thoughts. 'Kill automatons, save civilians. I can barely lift up this gun. Should I just toss it and just focus on saving civilians? They said the ones who save the most are the ones who pass, looks like they aren't focused on how many automatons you kills, but they need to be destroyed, because they're fast, and they can stop us from saving anything.'
Alistair kept silent. His eyes wide, not blinking at all, his veins popping.
As they neared the building's shadow, an automaton, its optics flaring a sinister red, charged from a concealed corner straight at Lars. In the split second of imminent threat, her fingers fumbled clumsily with the trigger, her breath catching in panic.
Without a moment's hesitation, Alistair sprang forward. The red electricity that had become his signature in the exams danced like furious lightning around his alchemy-enhanced gauntlets. With a swift, precise movement, he lunged and delivered a devastating punch that sent the automaton crashing into a pile of debris, sparks scattering like dying fireflies.
Breathing heavily, Lars staggered back, her heart racing wildly. "Thanks," she managed to gasp out, her voice tinged with both gratitude and a piercing edge of self-irritation.
Alistair, however, didn't respond. His face was set, his brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and perhaps disappointment. He merely nodded, signaling her to follow, as they moved deeper into the mock battlefield.
Around them, explosions of magic and the sharp reports of gunfire punctuated the air. A duo in the distance skillfully maneuvered their magic to weave a protective barrier, deflecting an onslaught from another automaton. They worked in seamless harmony, their powers complementing each other.
Elsewhere, a candidate with no magical or alchemical aid used clever positioning and a series of traps to incapacitate an automaton, demonstrating that intelligence could effectively replace brute strength.
Despite these inspirations, Lars felt a gnawing unease. Each step was heavier, each glance at the unwieldy gun in her hands a reminder of her limitations. She tried to stay focused, aware that every second lost in doubt was a point lost in evaluation.
They approached another building, its structure eerily creaking as if mourning its impending collapse. Inside, a group of mannequins awaited rescue, their lifeless forms a stark contrast to the violence outside.
Lars watched as Alistair assessed the situation, his eyes calculating the fastest route to the mannequins. This time, he gestured for her to stay back, taking the lead. She nodded, though the action stung with the silent acknowledgment of her earlier failure.
As Alistair moved into the building, Lars covered him, holding her position. The gun now felt like an anchor, dragging her spirits down with its weight. A distant part of her mind ridiculed her choice: why hadn't she opted for something lighter, something more manageable?
Another automaton approached, its movements less aggressive but no less threatening. Lars took a deep breath, attempting to steady her aim. This time, her finger found the trigger, squeezing with a desperate hope rather than confidence.
The shot went wide, clanging harmlessly against the metal carcass of a previously destroyed automaton. The sound, however, drew the attention of the new threat. As it turned towards her, the fear in Lars boiled into frustration.
Just then, Alistair emerged, noticing her plight. With no room for error, he charged, his form a blur of motion. Once again, the red electricity crackled, and the automaton fell, just a few feet from a paralyzed Lars.
She swallowed, her thanks dying on her lips as Alistair's look this time was visibly harder, his disappointment palpable. They moved on, the silence between them a heavy cloak. As they advanced, Lars's mind racedâ€"not about the exam, but about her choices, about her place beside Alistair, and about the growing gap their differing paths foreshadowed.
As Lars and Alistair worked their way through the mock urban battlefield, they fell into a rhythm, a dance of necessity, a silent partnership where actions spoke louder than any words could have. The area was fraught with danger, the air tinged with the acrid smell of burnt electronics from the ruined automatons Alistair had efficiently dispatched.
With Lars handling the extraction of mannequin civilians, her movements were methodical and precise, ensuring each lifeless proxy was out of potential harm's way. Alistair, on the other hand, was the very force of protection, his body weaving through the dangers with a grace bolstered by his alchemical prowess. His gauntlets crackled with energy, disintegrating the obstacles in their path, automatons falling one by one under his relentless assault.
As the last automaton crumbled to the ground, there was a palpable shift in the air, like the quiet after a storm. Lars, in that moment of calm, turned towards Alistair with an awe-stricken expression. "Phew! That was cool. You're really impressive, Alistairâ€""
But before she could finish her compliment, the world spun violently. An unimaginable force struck her squarely in the chest. Pain exploded through her body as Alistair's fist, still encased in his shimmering alchemical gauntlet, connected with a sickening crack. Lars's form was thrown backward, arcing through the air before collapsing in a crumpled heap. Blood blossomed across her uniform, stark against the drab surroundings.
Disoriented, gasping for breath, Lars tried to comprehend what had just occurred. Looking up, her vision blurred and hazy, she saw Alistair standing over her, his chest heaving, his eyes aflame with an intense, burning fury.
"Why?" Lars managed to choke out, her voice a whisper lost amidst the throbbing pain that enveloped her.
Alistair's face was a mask of torment and anger, his voice low and harsh as he responded, "You defend him. Gunn. You defend the motives of a killer, a monster who took from me those irreplaceable people I loved, innocents who had no part in his warped vision of justice."
Lars tried to sit up, her body screaming in protest. "Alistair, I... I just thought there was more to it, that understanding him could help.."
"Help?" Alistair's voice rose, laced with scorn and disbelief. "You think understanding the devil excuses his deeds? That it makes what he did any less vile? You seek reasons where there should only be retribution."
Every breath Lars took was laborious, her mind reeling not just from the physical blow but from the venom in Alistair's words. "I... I never meant to upset you. I didn't knowâ€""
"You didn't know because you didn't think," he cut her off sharply. "You so eagerly wear the cloak of empathy, ready to humanize a man who dehumanized so many. Gunn isn't a misunderstood hero, Lars. He is a murderer."
Tears mingled with the dirt on Lars's face as she struggled both physically and emotionally. "I thought... maybe if there was a reason, it could be stopped for good, changed even.."
"Changed?" Alistair spat the word out like it tasted bitter. "Some things don't deserve change. They deserve to be eradicated." His figure loomed, a stark silhouette against the reddening sky. "You claim to seek a better Empire, yet you sympathize with those who tear it apart. Don't you see? Your love for understanding the darkest sides aids them more than it does us."
Alistair's face twisted in a sneer, his anger not yet satiated. Without warning, he drew back his fist and struck Lars across the face with a force that seemed to split the very air between them. The impact sent Lars reeling, her body uncontrollably thrown back with such velocity that she collided with the hulking remnants of a nearby automaton. The machine crumbled under the dual force of her body and the heavy gun she still clung to, even in her dazed state.
Blood streamed from cuts on Lars's face, her uniform torn in several places, revealing more wounds beneath. As she lay amidst the wreckage, her breathing ragged and shallow, Alistair slowly walked toward her, each step deliberate and echoing ominously around the training field.
"You think you understand the world," Alistair began, his voice cold and methodical. "But your naivety will be your downfall. You advocate for those who deserve no advocate. I do what must be done for justice… real justice."
At the edge of the field, Maston, Vonthal, and Laurette watched the scene unfold with growing horror. Their initial shock at Alistair's actions gave way to a conflicted sense of duty should they intervene, stop their comrade from causing any more harm?
Before they could make a decision, Chief Constable Bramwell emerged from the shadows, his imposing figure casting a long and menacing shadow that seemed to chill the air itself. "Don't you fucking move," he commanded in a low growl that brooked no argument.
Vonthal thought, 'We can't allow this! She's a helpless girl!'
Laurette said to Bramwell, "Affirmative. We will not intervene."
Fear gripped Vonthal and Laurette, their bodies tensing as they exchanged uncertain glances. Maston clenched his fists, anger mingling with helplessness.
'Shit! Let us intervene! This is madness!'
Meanwhile, Lars, with immense effort, pushed herself up from the debris, her body screaming in protest. Her hands trembled as she leaned heavily against her oversized gun, now smeared with her blood. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was barely above a whisper, cracked with pain. "Please stop..."
The crowd of exam takers that had gathered murmured among themselves, casting curious and shocked looks at Alistair and Lars. Theories and whispers passed through the group like wildfire, yet none knew the heart of the conflict except for the two involved.
Alistair paused briefly, his expression unreadable. Then, with a voice devoid of empathy, he responded, chillingly precise, "You're no better than the Plague Doctor Gunn. You deserve death." His words hung heavily in the air, a declaration that echoed ominously across the silent field.
Lars's eyes widened at the harsh proclamation, a mix of fear and disbelief mirroring in her gaze. The reality of Alistair's judgment, his complete dismissal of her intentions, cut deeper than any physical wound.
As the tension continued to build, the implications of Alistair's actions and words threatened to fracture the bonds amongst all present. The exam, meant to be a test of skill and composure, had morphed into a stark display of brutal reality, the kind that left scars both seen and unseen. The onlookers, bound by Bramwell's command, could only watch in silent despair as one of their own faced not just the physical brutality from a peer but a crushing denouncement of her very being.
"What the hell…?!"
"What happened?"
"They were arguing about something!"
"This is bad!"
Alistair, consumed by a wrathful fervor, closed in on Lars once more, his movements swift and relentless. He raised his fist again, each blow intended to be a message, a brutal punctuation to his declarations. With ruthless efficiency, he struck Lars repeatedly, sending her flying across the training ground. Each impact was punctuated by the disturbing sound of flesh and bone meeting enhanced alchemical force.
'Why me..? This is my fault. I shouldn't have told him anything, I should've kept this to myself. A talentless girl like me should've just shut up. Why did I do that? I just want to make things better, instead of blood and carnage everywhere. What can I do? I thought I was ready. But I'm not.'
Lars, her body battered, kept a deathlike grip on her heavy gun throughout the onslaught.
Alistair screamed, "You're wrong! He's wrong! They're all wrong! We don't defend killers!"
Lars thought, 'I'm still holding the gun…why? I can't even use it because it's too heavy. And yet…maybe I can do something. I don't wanna die! I really..wanna talk to Gunn! I want to make father happy, and take care of my mother. I can't die here..'
With every strike, with every moment she was hurled across the field, a single strategy flickered in her pain-clouded mind. She allowed the momentum of each blow to position her gun, using the jarring movements to aim it loosely in Alistair's direction. Drawing on her last reserves of strength and consciousness, she waited for the optimal moment.
The heavy weapon, slick with her blood, was too burdensome to lift properly in her weakened state. Thus, she let it lie grounded, adjusting it slightly with her trembling hands. With Alistair advancing yet again, driven by a blind desire to subdue what he saw as betrayal, Lars seized her chance. Her finger curled around the trigger, a shuddering breath escaping her as she squeezed it.
The gunshot roared through the air, a shocking blast that resonated violently across the field. The large caliber bullet found its mark, tearing into Alistair's leg with catastrophic force. His lower leg was obliterated in an instant, reduced to a horrific mess as he was thrown back by the impact, screaming in agony.
Silence crashed down following the echo of the gunfire, broken only by Alistair's cries of pain and the ragged breaths Lars drew as she began to limp towards him. Each step she took was an agony, her body a tableau of bruises and blood, clothing torn and barely hanging onto her frame.
As she approached, the pain and desperation clear in her eyes, Chief Constable Bramwell finally made his move. His large frame moved steadily through the sea of shocked onlookers, his expression unreadable. The field that had been filled with the noise of battle now lay eerily silent except for the occasional groan of pain from Alistair and the labored breathing of Lars.
Bramwell reached the pair, his eyes briefly assessing the bloodied scene before him. He looked down at Alistair, whose face was contorted with both physical pain and emotional disbelief. Then his gaze shifted to Lars, standing defiant yet visibly crumbling under her injuries.
Chief Constable Bramwell towered over the bloodied and battered form of Lars, his presence exuding a sinister aura. His eyes, glowing a deep, unnatural red, fixed upon her with an intensity that seemed to pierce her very soul. Around them, the training ground was eerily quiet, the chaotic aftermath of the confrontation hanging heavily in the air.
"Blow his fucking head off," Bramwell commanded in a low, menacing growl. He extended a sleek, lightweight pistol towards Lars, who was collapsed on the ground, her body shaking uncontrollably from pain and fear. Blood dripped from her wounds, staining the dirt beneath her, while tears mixed with the grime on her face, creating streaks on her cheeks.
Lars's hands trembled violently as she hesitantly accepted the weapon. Holding it felt alien, its cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of the blood that covered her. Her eyes, wide and filled with terror, darted between the gun and Bramwell's menacing figure. The act he was asking her to commit clawed at her conscience. Lars had never taken a life, and every fiber of her being resisted the very notion.
From a distance, Vonthal, Laurette, and Maston watched the scene with a mix of horror and helplessness. Bramwell's fearsome reputation and aura of authority rooted them to the spot, their bodies tense with the desire to intervene but held back by their overriding fear.
Vonthal's frustration and anger built up inside her until she could contain it no longer. Grinding her teeth in helpless rage, she tasted blood as her gums split slightly under the pressure.
'Don't do it, Vonthal! Don't! Don't butt in! Do your best! Please! Vonthal! Please..'
Vonthal though to herself. With a burst of desperate courage, she broke from her paralysis and rushed forward, her voice a piercing cry in the still air. "Stop it, Bramwell!!!"
Laurette and Maston gasped, seeing that her actions were fatal.
Lars, startled by Vonthal's outburst, looked up with tear-filled eyes, her voice breaking as she stammered, "I can't do it...I'm not a killer..."
Bramwell sighed heavily, his expression one of disappointment mixed with a dark amusement. "Oh, that's too bad," he murmured. His glowing red eyes slowly turned towards Vonthal, and a chilling smile curled the edges of his lips. Fear struck deep into Vonthal's heart, the malevolent gaze freezing her in place for a moment before she turned to run, her scream trailing behind her as she sought help.
But as she reached the edge of the training field, a horrific and unexplained force struck her. Vonthal's chest exploded in a grotesque spectacle, her blood and tissues scattering across the grass. Her body crumpled to the ground, life extinguished in an instant, leaving a shocking silence in its wake.
The gruesome scene sent a wave of terror across the onlookers. Maston and Laurette, horror-stricken, could only stare in disbelief at the catastrophic power Bramwell wielded a power that seemed to transcend the natural laws they had known.
Lars, witnessing the carnage, felt a surge of fear and revulsion stronger than she had ever known. The pistol in her hand dropped to the ground with a hollow thud, her whole body shaking with sobs of fear and despair. Bramwell looked on, his presence dominating the field, a dark figure of authority and terror against the backdrop of the tragic chaos he had orchestrated.
The dramatic intensity of the moment marked each survivor deeply, imprinting a lesson of power, fear, and obedience in the brutal world they inhabited. The crowd of exam takers kept silent, wanting to say many things.
Bramwell said to Lars, who was frozen in shock, "I do not know why you and him were fighting, but you managed to wound someone stronger than you, sacrificing your body to be brutally beaten so you can get a risky strike on him. You are smart. You will now become the new Magistrate, working closely with General Maston and Engineer Laurette. Please do well, your service is commendable. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to see my daughter. I have to take her to the park."
Alistair screamed, "Chief Bramwell, you don't understand—!"
SHINK!
His head exploded, and he fell back. Steam came from his body, and Bramwell walked away.