Azrael woke under the steely gaze of two grey blue eyes.

“Get up” Mors said, before turning and striding away.

Azrael blinked, a ramshackle wooden roof blocking his view of the sky. It seemed that since he’d had his encounter with the God of Mischief he’d been constantly finding himself waking up in strange places.

The first time it was naked in a forest. The second time it was in somebody else’s bed. Following this trend the next time it would be naked in somebody else’s bed.

Mors paused at the door, one hand already pushing aside the faded curtain.

“Out” he said and before vanishing past the curtain.

Azrael complied and hurried out after the man.

Outside the sun was on its downward arc, several hours obviously having passed since Mors had pointed the stick at Azrael. Or rather, where Mors had knocked Azrael out with a single sweep of stick.

Right now, Mors was waiting outside, the same stick in his hand again. Just the sight of it gave Azrael a feeling of foreboding. Mors pointed the stick at Azrael.

“Fight me.”

Again, the fingers began their count down.

“I refu…URGH!”

Azrael found himself sprawled on the ground, again, his legs swept out from under him. He just barely having managed to protect his head this time, sparing himself a new concusion. The breath was driven out of his body though as he fell awkwardly. Mors watched without compassion.

“Your stance is weak… and falling for the same trick again…Pathetic.”

Mors’ so far emotionless voice dripped with unrestrained contempt. Azrael struggled up, gasping for breath.

Mors once again raised his hand, three fingers in the air. Azrael conjured two stone daggers, layering them both with [Reinforcement]. The twig came whistling down and Azrael tried to block it with both daggers crossed.

He was sent flying across the field, one of his daggers crumbling from the force, even after having [Reinforcement] applied. Mors regarded at him with a sneer.

“Weak. Flawed.”

Azrael considered just staying down. It hurt. He hurt. His health had also dropped by nearly ten percent from those two encounters. And the man was clearly holding himself back.

The twig came down again rapid succession, landing on all four of Azrael’s limbs.

“ARGH!!”

There was enough force behind the blows to send loud thunder shots into the air, but not enough break the skin or bones.

“Get up.”

This time Mors’ voice was once again emotionless and cold, but with a deadly undertone. Azrael understood that the man standing over him with a twig wasn’t Mors an old man, but Mors the Silver Sword.

Azrael wasn’t sure what the title meant, but this was a man that had killed and would do so again, without batting an eye.

Azrael pushed himself up, conjuring a new dagger. He glared poison at Mors, but the man didn’t even blink, instead raising three fingers. Azrael didn’t wait, launching himself forward. His daggers left his grasp almost immediately, flying for the man’s throat.

Mors leant to one side, letting the first dagger pass by harmlessly. The second dagger was met by the twig, small stone shards exploding out from the impact. Impossibly fast a first [Stone Spike] emerged from out of nowhere, lancing through the air. It was followed by a second and a third. All three pierced the space where Mors was standing and all three missed.

The stick came down against the back of Azrael’s head, sending him sprawling face first into the dirt. He spat the dirt out of his mouth and turned his head back to glare at his tormentor. A [Stone Spike] erupted out, from directly under Mors, but the man moved like lightning.

The stick came down on Azrael again, causing Azrael to lunge towards the man in anger while swinging his fist. The stick came down against his knuckles, knocking the blow off course.

“Futile”

Azrael staggered to a halt, cradling his stinging fist. He turned and glared at the man. At the tormentor, the psychopath, that beat him up for no reason.

“Why…”

The Silver Sword cut him off.

“Who are you?”

Though it was a question, there was no curiosity behind it. It was almost a statement.

Before Azrael could respond though the twig came down again. This time there was no warning, no fingers, no countdown. It came, fast as lightning and almost as painful.

Azrael felt tears welling up, both from the pain and from the humiliation.

“Why?” he asked.

“You are weak.”

There was no judgment, only cold assessment. Somehow, that just made it worse.

Azrael launched himself into the air with a blast of wind to get away from the pain. The Silver Sword followed him up, letting the pure muscle strength in his jump carry him into the sky.

The stick came down. Azrael came down faster, the blow smashing him down into the earth. His health was below half.

Notifications popped up, but he pressed them to the side, dropping into [Meditation]. The breathing pattern, so familiar only came to him in laboured gasps. Azrael fired a [Fire Bullet] at his opponent.

The golden flames burst forward, in brilliant glory. The stick cut through them with ease, dissipating them into the night.

“You are weak” Mors repeated again.

Azrael knew it was a taunt. He knew he shouldn’t react, but he still felt himself bristle at the provocation. The absolute lack of emotion was what made it the worst. His opponent said it as if he were speaking about the weather, as a fact.

“I’m not weak” Azrael growled, frustration and anger coiling in his stomach along with something darker.

The stick didn’t care as it came down again. And again. And again. Unerringly. Unceasingly.

Azrael pulled back and the two circled each other, both ready if the other made another move.

Azrael was beaten, bruised, panting and covered in dust and sweat. Mors on the other hand was barely breathing heavily, although a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his forehead.

“The weak will always be trodden on.”

“I’m not weak.”

He launched a [Fire Bullet], dropping into stealth as Mors was temporarily blinded.

The man sliced through his ball with contemptuous ease, before his gaze flickered over the field and locked onto Azrael. The stick came in a horizontal arc, shattering a defensive [Earth Spike] that appeared between them.

The resulting explosion of rock peppered Azrael with stone shrapnel, drawing blood from all of his exposed skin and shredding through his clothes. The twig swung again and Azrael found himself landing underneath the solitary tree on the mountain. He pulled himself up to lean against the tree, while cradling his side.

His health had dropped down again, leaving him dangerously close to death. Even [Meditation] could only accelerate his healing so far.

“Stop.” He gasped, his pride as battered as his body.

Tears threatened to spill. The pain was unbearable. The humiliation was just as bad.

The Silver Sword, Mors, only looked down at him calmly. His expression was unreadable.

“Make me” He said finally, raising the hated stick in challenge.

“Force me to stop. Fight me. Bribe me. Convince me. Beg me. Choose.”

A smile played on the man’s lips for the briefest of moments.

“Who are you to get me to stop? Convince me, show me. Prove that you have something, anything.”

Azrael pulled himself up and that same smile flickered across the man’s passive face again.

“What will you choose?” he asked. This time it was a question. A proper question with genuine curiosity.

Azrael answered with a massive roar, his [Aura] bursting out of him in full force. From within him something answered his call.

Congratulations!

Your unique skill [@#%& Self] has gained full awareness of self.

Warning! …

Azrael ignored the rest of the notifications as he felt power of the beast flooding through him. Its roar answered his call, adding its voice to his. Its power lent itself to his. Its will lent itself to his. Because, for the first time in a long time, they were in agreement.

Azrael charged at The Silver Sword, his daggers drawn and flames roaring around him as [Wind] bore him forward.

*****

Alena turned her gaze to the house, something seeming to draw her out of her practice. She placed her daggers back into their scabbards and walked inside.

Like always since her master had left the house was clean, swept, washed and ordered. The dishes were washed and the pantry was stocked full.

Her gaze soon found what had disturbed her. Even now she felt the compulsion, calling her. The compulsion called to her from the depths of her soul, ordering her to move, as if under the command of her Lord and master. She hesitated as she looked at the big crystal on the windowsill. The compulsion locked itself on to the item.

It was like a mana core, but too big and tendrils of inky darkness swirled inside it. Her master had brought it back after the wolf hunt, before he had disappeared. She had left it where he had left it, only moving it when she cleaned the table. Before now it had never reacted. Always the stone was cool to the touch and the tendrils of darkness unresponsive to anything outside of itself. Now though? Now she could feel a pull, a tug. Compelled by curiosity, and something more, she touched it.

The stone shattered, darkness exploding outwards. Like a hungry maw it enveloped the light, stealing her sight and robbing her of her vision, before streaming into her like grasping fingers.

It vanished into her, and she could see again, but she could feel it moving through her, deeper and deeper, down to her very soul… and then beyond. All of a sudden, she could suddenly feel her Lord. The darkness flowed towards him, like a hound to its master. The soul-link, temporarily strengthened by rolling darkness let her feel her Lord as she had been unable to since he’d left.

She could feel his anger, his hopelessness and above all his resolve. Then, like that the darkness was gone. The connection stopped, the emotions cutting off with an abruptness that left her gasping for breath. She felt drained, her energy washed away by the power of the darkness. It had all transferred to her Lord, all save a little.

The remaining tendrils curled around inside her, soft, barely noticeable.

She thought back to her Lord, to his resolve, before looking at the chess board by the window. The pawns were lined up in neat rows, protecting their king.

She strode towards the village. Another two new people had arrived seeking refuge, adding to the growing number of villagers. She fingered her daggers.

She had work to do.