Sitting in the middle of a field of torn flesh and broken bodies, Michael stared around dumbly. The group he had taken to be a threat to his very existence was completely dismantled by a single man. No man, women, child, or even elderly were spared from Jax’s mountainous wrath. Looking at the cause of this all, he was kneeling in front of Michael. Sword sheathed into the ground itself, a few feet of the blade and hilt stood out grabbed by his right hand. His left held onto his blood-stained helmet, using it for balance.

Head hung low on drooping shoulders, tears ran down the hulking man’s dirtied face. Making tracks on his cheeks and further down. Shaking in his spot, he waited patiently for his liege to give him permission to speak.

While no emotions coursed through him from the countless deaths around him, just a cold apathy that somehow hurt, Michael still felt incredulous at the scene before him. This walking incarnation of death, a harbinger of doom waited for permission to speak from someone who could not have been half his age. Just a boy compared to the lifetime of experiences Jax had encountered as his father's guard before him.

Staring at, Jax had pleading eyes that suggested more than the stoic face could convey. An extreme sense of a need to be accepted and approval. Body moving as though it had a mind of its own, Michael raised his hands, wiping away the latest of streaking tears on the monstrous man’s face. Seeing this as permission to speak, Jax voiced his concerns in a monotone voice. His vein, on the top right of his forehead, throbbed wildly as he spoke.

“M-My liege, forgive me,” said Jax. Unable to stare Michael in the eyes, he lowered his head and continued to speak, attempting to explain himself to someone almost a tenth of his size. Nothing but a twitch from his fingers could easily snap Michael in half.

“I had lost myself in my rage, My Liege. The prospect of losing you once more drove me wild with bloodlust. If it is your will to punish me, then with grace and gratitude I shall be humbled,”

The longer the situation lasted, the more preposterous it became too Michael. What could have happened to garner such devotion and loyalty? What must a man go through to put such value to another's words of thoughts? It was frightening in more ways than one. The sheer size of this responsibility had him breathing hard than usual. Blinking a few times, he scrunched up his nose as the smell of death and waste became more pronounced with the arrival of a current.

A familiar smell?

Unable to hold the silence any longer, Michael’s mouth moved by itself as a memory of long past assaulted his senses.

Covered in dirt and grime, a massive man continued his dance of death and destruction in a colosseum of epic proportions. Moving from place to place in dusty rags that barely covered his body, he somehow gave this cruel event a grace hardly seen. Being a younger person, Ruthar had to stand to look over the seated bodies in the Emperor’s Guest Floor. Twenty men battled against one, et their numbers made no difference to the guaranteed outcome. No, their numbers came at their detriment and sorrowful loss.

Cheering with the crowd at every person that fell to the rusted blade in the ‘Giants Kin’s hand, he could not help himself. A massive grin adorned his face and the desire to meet the monster up close catching his very being. In a short few minutes, all twenty men were dead or were almost at Hecaras doors. Walking to the middle of the arena, the warrior roared in triumph, waving his reddened blade to the sway of the crowd.

“There you go! Still remaining undefeated, The Giant’s Kin is victorious once again!” said the announcer, hyping the crowd to greater levels. Giving them a few minutes he waited until they calmed down.

“We have one more spectacle that will never be seen again. One only done for our esteemed guests! Ges Kinreal and his son Ruthar Kindreal! Today, in but a few moments, The Chosen One will grace us himself on the battlefield once more! For decades there has been no beast nor man that could end the streak of He who cannot be defeated! Feast your eyes as he battles The Giant’s Kin!”

The crowds erupted into cheers that gave Ruthar goosebumps. Shivering with excitement, he looked back at his father with joy radiating from his face. He did not know who this Chosen One was, but the Giant’s Kin was going to fight again! Seated next to the emperor, his father had a pleased face, directly behind him stood Bialo with a much younger face.

Looking back to the arena, massive drums began to beat an echoing sound while the audience stomped their feet or slammed their hands onto the solid earth around them. Slowly, a gate that seemed rusted from disuse began to rise; it was not the one all the other contestants had entered from. Reaching the pinnacle, the silhouette of a man appeared as he walked in from them.

The first thing Ruthar had noticed was the red hair. Cascading down to the small of the man’s back, it swayed with every step the man took. The next thing he noticed was the pure muscle and unnatural beauty the man had. The whistling of ladies sounded out in the background of the stomping and drumming.

Holding onto a sword, he pointed it towards the Giant’s Kin without wasting a moment of time. In response, the massive man stepped back into a practiced stance that was unlike the pure offensive he had shown before. Instead, it was completely defensive, ready to block and escape rather than strike and counter. As the two men positioned themselves, the audience grew quiet as a chant rang through the entire hall. Staring open mouthed at the spectacle, Michael could not help but feel afraid for his warrior. His father had even allowed him to place a gold coin as a wager that The Giant Kin would win all his battles.

He of Bloodened Hair!

Bringer of the Rain!

Chosen is he who will never be slain!

By man or beast!

Oh, He of Bloodened Hair!

Grace us with your might!

Show us what none have ever seen before!

Almost as if the words themselves began to define the man, a red haze covered him entirely. At the last stanza, he pushed himself to his limits towards his opponent. The Giant’s Kin fought admirably, but it was obvious from the very start that he was simply hoping to survive. Like a mechanical toy, he was dismantled, disarmed, and then stripped of pride as he fell to the ground unable to stop the force of nature that struck at him.

Unable to see what happened because of the speed of the red-haired man, Ruthar was left quite disappointed that his warrior lost. Turning to his father with determined eyes, he had become adamant that he would see The Giant’s Kin.

“Father, I want to visit The Giant’s Kin now,” said Ruthar.

His words had both his father and the Emperor of Rimal spitting out the gulps of disgusting drinks they enjoyed so much. Looking to each other, a moment of silence ensued before boisterous laughter echoed throughout the entire floor. Smiling down at him, the Emperor had gotten up and walked next to him. He placed a dark-skinned hand onto Ruthar’s shoulder.

“Child, you would be eaten alive by the men down there. It's a completely different world than that where you were raised. Take my advice and stay seated in the comfort around you,”

Frowning, Ruthar could not help but bristle in indignation at the ridicule and disbelief in him. Balling his hands into tiny fists, he looked the Emperor in the eyes, unwilling to waiver in front of the intimidating presence before him.

“I am not a child! I am a man now. Of twelve entire summers,”

Raising his chin in faux confidence, he waited from the continuous ridicule and obnoxious laughter he was going to get, but instead, an eerie silence descended onto the entire floor; louder than any words or sound that could have followed his words. Looking around, every single person including his father and the Emperor himself wore serious faces without a single shred of the joviality that had been there just seconds ago.

“Boy,” said the emperor, his voice frighteningly deep and malevolent.

“Do you truly believe you are a man and not just male? That life has treated you with enough of a grudge to give you true adulthood, capable of taking care of your own in only but the most extreme conditions?”

Gulping, Ruthar’s young hands shook behind his back, hidden from everyone else. Yet, on the outside he forced himself to show as much calm as possible, with very little shaking, though if he were to look down at his feet, he would have noticed them chattering. Determined to not make a fool out of himself and in the process his father, he nodded with certainty. Unable to look away, he stared into the emperor’s eyes, no one daring to breathe.

In Rimal culture, manhood was different than simply reaching puberty. It was a trial to not only test your physical fortitude, but also your intelligence and ability to think on your feet. Many trials were made, in as many shapes and forms as the stars themselves, to examine the person himself. Only those who make it through can truly call themselves men of Rimal, or women if they so choose to embark on such a treacherous adventure.

Oblivious to the cultural significance of his statement, Ruthar kept his facade of confidence and surety. This led him to be sent with only a single guard towards the prison of a seasoned and calloused killer. They took many stairs and passed through many doors until finally, they went through on that seemed to be guarded by the stench of death, waste, and rot. Like a physical barrier, Ruthar felt himself crash into the wall of repugnant smells. Staggering he found it incredibly difficult to breathe, taking him almost more than he could last to get his first stench filled lungful of air.

After walking for thirty minutes, he had gotten used to it a bit more as they finally reached a dark corner that ended with a single barred door. Slamming the bars with a metal rod, the guard leading Ruthar called out to the occupant of the room.

“Jax, we got you a visitor. A noble from a kingdom past the Great Mountains. Thinks himself a man,”

In response, Ruthar heard a heaving chuckle that felt on the edge of tears. Letting out a breath, he committed himself to this course of action, even if his body wanted the exact opposite. Large beads of sweat formed on his forehead swiped away by the edges of a luxurious robe, and legs that felt more like lead than flesh and bones. Step by step he walked closer until he saw the darkened figure of a man with humongous proportions. Massive hands that matched the sheer size of the body lying in the shadows.

“I was impressed with your battle today,” said Ruthar, unsure of what to say.

In return, he received nothing more than a grunt of irritation and what he recognized as pain. Undaunted by this, Ruthar tried to hit home with his words hoping to bring the man out of his secretive cocoon.

“Admirable even though you lost badly to a man less than a third your size,”

Almost off-handedly, Ruthar looked away, internally smirking to himself as Jax, like the guard had called him, bristled in response to his words.

“Red hair, matching the blood that coursed through the arena from your previous battle, and much more similar to the blood that seeped out of you against that man, The Chosen One, they called him,”

Watching from the corner of his eye, he heard more than saw the laying figure almost disappear from his previous spot to directly in front of the bars. Eliciting a yell of caution from the guard trying to calm the monstrous man down before he did something he would regret.

“What do you know?” said Jax in a voice with no trace of emotion or infliction, completely monotone.

Turning towards him, Ruthar took a step towards the man, causing the guard to shriek in a shrill voice. Trying to grab him before he got to close, but was too slow.

“I know more than you think I do. I know that you are broken, on the verge of desperation,” Of course Ruthar did not truly know that, but instead shot a hopeful guess into the vacuum of reality. Relying on the fact that though Jax had spoken with a cold voice, the twitching of a very clear vein and his confrontational reaction to the words of a boy.

Long seconds of silence reigned supreme as Ruthar looked Jax in the eyes, his sense of entitlement surging him past the fear and anxiety he felt. Eventually, the massive man before him, that had just shown confidence, drooped down as he looked away from Ruthar’s piercing gaze. Turning away, he sat back down with a grunt, unwilling to look the child in the eyes.

“What do you know of my confinement? Knowing that no matter what you do no matter how strong you become, the only way out of these bars is to kill an immortal foe. The Chosen One, Barar Saied,”

Though the words were heavy with meaning, Jax’s monotone voice almost had Ruthar believing this was nothing more than a joke. Yet, the desperation that haunted the face of the man before him could not have been made up. It told stories of sorrow and loss, pain and suffering. Of a man who worked to reach the top and gain the one thing he truly, with the very depths of his soul, needed. Freedom.

“There is no path out of this hell, the stench of the dead and those at its door, it haunts me. Keeps me awake during the nights. They invade my dreams. Because deep down I know! I know that at the very end, I too will die a dog’s death,”

Again, the silence became long and full of tension. But both parties were willing to let it last. That is until Ruthar stepped forward, pressing his hands onto the bars and face only an inch away. His shuffling steps caught Jax’s attention, looking up to see what the naive child wanted and whether the guard would take him away. It hurt being reminded of the same truth you locked deep down inside you. Knowing that it would eat you alive if it was allowed to take hold. The fear of death was too real, making even the most cold-hearted and battle experienced break down to their most base instinct of survival.

“What would you give for it?” said Ruthar, his words echoing throughout the entire hall. “What would you give for freedom?”

With a jerk of his head, his eyes burned with desperation, Jax needed it more than water is needed in a barren desert. Taking a shaky, but oddly monotone, breath, Jax exhaled his answer with as much emotion his shattered soul could push into a single word.

“Anything,”

Ruthar extended his hand, palm face down. The enormity of the moment not lost to him, so he chose his words wisely.

“Then become the Guard of my Honor. The sword that slays my enemies, and protects me from those that would attempt to harm me,”

“You are the Guard of my Honor. The sword that slays my enemies, and protects me from those that would attempt to harm me. How could I punish someone as loyal and devoted as you from doing the very thing you swore to me so long ago,” said Michael, almost wistfully as he came back to the present world.

In front of him, head held between Michael’s hands was Jax, with his stoic face and tears running down. A paradox if he had ever seen one. Shivering, at his words, the massive man closed his eyes.

“Thank you, My Liege,”