Amidst a formidable assembly numbering in the hundreds, they loomed, titanic and imposing, their forms fluttering and undulating, a celestial quilt shrouding the heavens in an endless expanse of sinister shadows. A gnawing dread gripped at his very essence, for he recognized that this forthcoming clash would transcend all prior battles. It promised countless sleepless nights, a relentless onslaught that demanded unwavering tenacity. He had witnessed the horrors of war and had spilled oceans of blood, yet this hallowed ground seemed destined to become his personal grave. To surmise that a solitary soul could prevail against such odds bordered on folly, yet self-doubt, he knew, was the harbinger of defeat. Although his inner demons had recently whispered doubts, he could not allow these insidious insecurities to barricade his path. He tightened his grip upon his formidable weapon, summoned the reservoirs of his strength, and fortified his resolve. With a daring dash into ink, his weapon was unsheathed, ready to thrust into his first opponent.
"A Transfer Request to the Bemeanian 45th division of Shapur II. Reasoning: I would like to be stationed closer to my family."
With the Transfer Request in hand, the man huddled amidst a fortress of paperwork, his gaze fixated on the seemingly inconsequential parchment. As he scrutinized the lines of text, memories of his own family flooded his thoughts. He pondered whether he had ever been stationed close to them during the harrowing Battle of Horsa, amidst the treacherous terrain of the Cruor Swamps, or even as he trudged through the unforgiving Mogwai Badlands. Pausing to inhale a deep breath, he sought solace within himself. With a newly calmed mind, he placed his weapon firmly onto the antagonizing page before him. He realized that, yes, his family was near him through each and every one of those trials; because, the military was his family; that was where he belonged, and that was where this person belonged: Request denied.
The door swung open, "Sir, are you in here?" The inquiry pierced the room like a dagger, tearing through the tattered defenses of the weary man. It seemed as if the very question itself had the power to deflate his will to carry out the daunting task at hand. He wondered, gazing around the room cluttered with a mountain of paperwork, if there was truly enough bureaucracy in this chamber to hide behind its oppressive walls.
A quick, despairing glance around affirmed the grim truth. Mountains of files, requests, reports, and depositions formed a chaotic landscape, dominating his desk and shrouding his office like a relentless tempest. There was no direct line of sight between the door and his seat; one had to embark on a labyrinthine journey, navigating through winding tunnels of testimonies and precarious bridges of binders amidst ink forests and towering paper peaks just to reach his desk. It was a place where one could easily become lost in the twisting passages of documents for hours, remaining unnoticed by the outside world.
The messenger stammered, their voice laced with anxiety, as if uncertain whether their words were worthy of the room, "I, I have the list of candidates for the new Guandi Squad,"
The tired man pondered momentarily, realizing the messenger's unease might have stemmed from a fear that their voice might not penetrate the dense paper fortress surrounding him. "I have already reviewed the candidates; none of them will suffice."
The messenger insisted. "B-but you have to form a squad from the list,"
"Have you seen the candidates?" the frustrated man retorted, his voice booming from behind the towering stacks of paper. A few of the taller piles swayed slightly under the force of his frustration.
The messenger, worried about the stability of the paper pillars, responded cautiously, "No, sir, I have not."
"They're a joke! An embarrassment to the entire Pangean Entente! They can hardly manage to don their own armour properly! Sending them into battle would be like offering a comedic gift to the mogwai, who would probably take them home for their children to devour."
The messenger quietly retorted. "I don't think that's quite true… sir,"
"Even the son of that so-called 'hero' could do better."
The messenger apprehensively countered, "Well, in all fairness, the Hero of New Heirisson Conquest's son is said to be one of the greatest swordsmen alive, not to mention a supremely skilled magician... and, well, the son of the Hero of New Heirisson Conquest."
The frustrated man couldn't help but emit an aggravated sigh. He had long grown weary of the incessant adulation bestowed upon celebrities more accustomed to gracing the front page of newspapers than the front lines of battle. "Please, don't tell me you're another one of his hopeless admirers. His swordsmanship, while impressive, is far from refined. And what relevance does his status as the son of that so-called 'hero of humanity' hold, anyway?"
"Well, the hero is widely regarded as the most skilled fighter in all of history."
The weary man scoffed, "Not that skilled."
"He was skilled enough to beat you." Silence hung in the air for a moment before the messenger hastily added, "I-I'm sorry, sir."
The disgraced man took a moment to recollect himself before responding, his voice laced with an odd mixture of understanding and subtle rebuke. "It doesn't matter anyway. It's not like anyone capable would enlist in the Pangean Entente anymore. Without the war, it's a miracle we still have an Entente, let alone people wanting to join it. And with the Tournament only a month away, nobody would think of joining us bygones, nobody of merit at least."
"Sir, I think you'll find the recruits in our shortlist are significantly strong."
The man huffed with exhaustion. "That's not the same, sure they have strength; even the 'hero' has plenty of strength, but that's not what's needed for my Guandi Squad. It's quite understandable, someone with your limited experience might find it challenging to discern between mere strength and genuine skill. The Hero possesses strength and talent, certainly, but his skill is easily overshadowed by his ego. True skill is a far rarer and greater treasure."
His mind wandered to those exceptional individuals he so wished to see among his list of Guandi candidates. "Like that young girl from the Sodality of Rain in the Elemental Festival eight years ago," He pondered idly on the mysterious prodigy. "I wonder what became of her." His thoughts returned to the present as a more pertinent example of the ideal disciple he sought came to mind. "Or Liederkranz, she was the pride of the Guandi Squad. What she possessed was true skill."
"I don't understand sir." the messenger admitted, brows furrowed in confusion.
He answered simply. "Talent is like a fresh delicious cheese, while skill is akin to a cheese that has been left out to age, fermenting into a true delicacy."
"I— what?" The messenger was now really confused.
"It means I am not perfect. I can't age cheese that thinks being fresh is better."
The messenger blinked, still bewildered. "I can ask for someone to prepare you some cheese if you would like?"
The aggravated man bellowed in response, "It means I won't be choosing any of those candidates for the Guandi Squad!"
The messenger winced back against the stern tone, feebly managing to stutter back. "Um sir, I am s-s-sorry but the ge-general s-sai-"
"Common son, speak more clearly."
"THE GENERAL SAID - I DON'T CARE IF NONE OF THE CANDIDATES PASS THAT IMPOSSIBLE TO PLEASE MAN'S CRITERIA, HE MUST CHOOSE SIX FROM THE LIST OR ELSE HE WILL HAVE TO REORGANIZE THE MILITARY FUNDS OF THE PAST TWELVE YEARS!... sir." The messenger delivered his message hurriedly, his voice laced with anxious panic as he awaited his superior's response.
The agitated man was certainly exhausted at this point. That warmonger general of his kept on pushing him to train the next generation of Guandi Squad now that none of its members were on active duty, or so the general wished! He was still on active duty, and no matter how much the general pushed for him to step down from the frontlines and Guandi Squad, he still had many decades of fight in him!
Besides, those pencil pushers always hiding in the protection of Parapet Island under the guise of guiding the war effort could never understand what the battlefield actually entailed. They thought that just because a kid could swing an expensive sword their daddy bought them, they could be sent to the field and start collecting heads. They don't understand that this war isn't like any other. When someone is thrown in the middle of a warzone and stares down against their first mogwai, realizing for the first time the difference between them and a mere human, recognizing the true nature of this war, that decides who is capable of fighting: who is capable of joining the Guandi Squad, the only unit in the Pangean Entente to venture onto mogwai territory and return. It wasn't for some little brat that happened to fill some senile, wealthy noble's bingo board of 'qualified warrior.'
For now, he would give up on fighting. He could just hide the candidate list at the bottom of his stacks of work. It would be beyond his control if he lost the list then. "Fine, just leave the list somewhere on the table."
"...Sir?" The messenger asked back, unsure.
"Yes?"
"Where is the table?"
The defeated man, overwhelmed by despair, faltered and allowed his head to drop heavily onto the chaotic jumble that had once been known as his desk. A disconcerting ripple coursed through the teetering stacks of parchment threatening to collapse. This was truly a grim state. "Just leave it on a pile somewhere." he muttered, resignation lacing his voice.
The messenger gently placed the list onto one of the many human-sized temples of bureaucracy. As he turned to depart, a trace of genuine concern softened his words. "How's your back, sir?" he inquired, his tone brimming with sympathy.
"Better."
"Get well soon sir." With that last farewell, the messenger began to walk out of the room.
"Yes please."
"Sir?"
"If you could ask someone to prepare me some cheese, that would be wonderful."
"Yes sir." The messenger began to leave the room again.
"Aged, not fresh."
"Yes sir."
The door shut, and finally, the old man had the room to himself again, and he could return to his long-overdue work. The pen did not fit as comfortably in his hand as a sword, but such were the ways of his recent life.
He firmly clenched onto his mighty weapon, gathering his strength and steeling his will. With a dash into the ink, his weapon was unsheathed, and he thrust the pen into his next opponent. A mighty tax form. His weapon bled ink onto the bottom of the paper as he carved out his name onto the body of the page. With a flick of his wrist, the opponent was slain. He raised the corpse of the tiring and challenging enemy and dumped it upon one of the many stacks of corpses by his side. The stack swayed, side to side to side, indecisive of whether it would accept this extra load. After a few seconds of suspense, it decided it couldn't.
The stack collapsed, plummeting down onto another stack, which in turn plummeted down onto another, causing a cascading catastrophe of drowning bureaucracy. The man could do nothing but watch as each procrastinated burden transformed the whole room into a sea of paper. No more walls or tunnels; the place was a mess, but at least he could see the door and the window; he forgot he had one of those. He also saw a strange object in the center of the room. He was certain he did not have one of those.
In the center of the room, there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards the man holding a much more interesting piece of paper, a glowing parchment: it read.
You have been invited to
The Tournament
You are The Knight