Seven Years Earlier:
The city of Carati was… dense. Buildings fought each other for space, clothes lines were splayed over every narrow alleyway, and each rickety, towering structure housed about thirteen or fourteen rat-infested homes. Guardsmen had to patrol the streets in droves all day. Kids ran about, ducking poles and jumping stairs, hopping off the walls of buildings to nab a fleece or purse. Merchants worked day and night, for the city never slept. Day was a mask: a mere facade for the city's tamer trading activities.
Night was when the city showed its true colors.
Bridges between the high towers allowed lucrative topside trading, whereas the street-level trading remained more illicit.
Fifteen-year-old Kilgore sat dozing off his own stall, eyes buried in the depths of some historical epic. His employer was none too pleased.
"Oi! Dumbarse!"
"Mmmh. One more moment mother, school hasn't started yet —"
Tick grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, yanking Kilgore up. Burly man, Tick was. Stupidly strong. Kilgore kicked his legs in the air and struggled but Tick kept his grip tight.
"Remind me, brat, why are you here?"
"To make money."
Tick growled. "And to do that, what do you need to sell?"
"False Eckers."
"Good. I'm glad we're in agreement. Except… you can't really sell False Eckies if you are burying your stupid little head in a stupid arse book, now can you?"
"No sir."
"Right. Now, would you kindly GET BACK TO WORK!!!" Tick yelled, spittle flying in Kilgore's face. He dropped the boy unceremoniously. Kilgore plopped back into his seat, steadying himself from falling.
Then, with a sigh, he scooted over to the counter and restocked the display vials.
False Eckers. Eckies. Codes for Alternative Essence, one of the great tenants of science.
They came in granular particles, in a variety of colors. Accordingly, each color corresponded to the different types of Essence, though Kilgore didn't really care for which was which. He had no interest in the hard science of Essence.
He could sell them well enough however.
Hooded figures of dagger and sword were Tick's most usual clientele. They came scurrying to the shop window, perusing the vast swath of colorful vials — Tick always said to arrange them in a colorful order.
According to him, "Anybody stupid enough to buy shite like False Eckers will probably care about how colorful that stuff looks."
And frankly, Kilgore had to agree. Presentation was everything in this saturated street market. False Eckers were the king of products here so every vendor wanted a damn piece. But Tick did well enough because of his cred.
And of course, because when Kilgore wasn't dozing off, he was a fairly decent worker.
"You!" He called, pointing to a black hooded figure slumping about in the rain. "I see you looking over here! Come and see. We've got a wide variety of Eckers. Blacks, blues, reds — a veritable rainbow."
The man plodded over with a limp. Under the hood he looked rather young. Handsome, even — at least more so than the usual crowd here.
"You a top level runner?" Kilgore asked, curious.
The man gave him a perplexed glance. "Sorry, what?"
Well, that confirms it. "I mean, are you from the high towers?" Kilgore rephrased.
"Oh. Eh, mid-levels," the man said, shaking his hand. Pfff. That's what all the high-level customers say. Can't let this one get away — fat purse like him will get starched in a night.
"Well," Kilgore said, holding his hand out. "The name's Kilgore. You could also call me a 'mid-level tower resident'."
The man looked at Kilgore's hand with some measure of surprise. "Then… why are you here?"
With an evil-looking smile, Kilgore put a finger to his lips.
"That, my friend, is a trade-secret."
…
Present Day:
Kilgore stepped into the rumbling lake as Bullforger stomped his feet, howling and cackling so verbosely that the entire jungle seemed to shake.
[Water Drill: the ability to dive beneath the depths and spin at such a lightning pace that one can propel themselves through the current and use their body as a weapon.]
Well, let's see it in action then.
With that, Kilgore began to swim. The lake's depths were not so deep at first: it took a while to even be able to wade the water without his feet touching the banks. Once he swam out enough, however, he took one deep breath and dove down, hands grazing the weedy flora and colorful corals of the undersurface.
Then, he began spinning.
At first, the movement was awkward to him. It felt like he was just flailing about uselessly, as if he was some deranged fish. Yet, slowly, his body gained some speed. And the water itself became more familiar — more nostalgic. Such was the power of the orbs. He began to remember how it used to feel when Aritaka himself braved the depths, swimming freely through the open ocean: jumping and diving through the glistening waters along with his brethren mermen and water mages.
He was creating a whirlwind now, a current of his own. Swinging his arms out, he pulled the water with his blade and spun even faster. At the same time, he was learning how to breathe underwater — a passive Essence skill that most water mages and mermen possess from birth.
He missiled through the undercurrent of the lake, heading towards the muffled sound of the stomping giant and the rumbling waterfall.
Once he got close enough, he dove even lower, avoiding the fall of the giant's hooved-feet breaking through the water and slamming down with a trail of frothy bubbles following in its wake.
As soon as the foot started going back up, Kilgore aimed himself up and spun faster. He cocooned himself in a second layer of water, such was his acceleration.
He zoomed towards the foot of the giant and grabbed onto the rim between the hoof and the fur of its leg. As the giant's foot broke out of the water and the moonlight brightened all once more, Kilgore held on for his life.
With one incredible effort, he braced his feet against the rim of the hoove, and slammed his sword down into the giant's furred, crooked heel.
It roared in pain.
And thus the battle began.