Femmet slowly rolled into wakefulness.

The thing below him, the bed. It was wet. He was still wet from the rain, from the forest.

The air, it felt uncomfortably warm, as if it was pushing in on him like a heavy blanket.

His mouth felt rough and dry, so he limply opened and closed his mouth, trying to get that dry sensation out of his mouth.

Suddenly and without warning, something cold was violently thrust into his mouth. The cold water suddenly slipping down his throat was then quickly rejected by his throat for going too fast.

He sat up, coughing now and heard the sound of apologies fill the air around him. The world was still hazy to look at but nevertheless he thought he recognised the voice.

Still barely awake, Femmet turned to greet his older sister Feme.

“Thanks for that. You’ll make your future husband happy with bed technique like that.” After repeating the joke he’d heard the old men in town say before but didn’t fully understand, he winced.

The pain had hit him then, a slow ache coming from the bites on his limbs, as well as the sharp burning pain which came from the familiar feeling of the Witch’s herbs, it reminded him of when he was little and he’d first started working the field before his skin got tougher. Back then she’d given him treatment almost daily. His whole body felt tired still, and stiff like the cold from the forest was still inside him.

His sister's slow chanting, faltering at first but quickly picking up, entered his ears. His body or rather the area around it lit up, a bright golden light, flickering at first but then strong and steady as it covered his entire body like a second skin.

Femmet felt the smell of warm bread enter his nostrils, and turned to see his sister's worried face fill his vision.

“Nice Chant.”

“Thanks.” Happiness, followed by sadness followed by pity. The half-forgotten already memory of what he’d done in the forest, of what he’d remembered, reared its head in those moments.

There was just too much between them now, Femmet could practically taste it in the air, and that statement he left hanging there, it soured the quickly brightening mood. It had never been there before, or maybe it had, he’d just chosen to ignore it in favor of the idea that he was useless instead.

It was so obvious, how had he never seen it before? That look on her face, that pity, the same expression that he’d seen reflected on his mother's face occasionally as well as on the adults in town.

They all knew what he was and why he was born. He was a slave, a workhorse bound by chains of family. How had he ever mistaken that pity for anything else?

All this time, he’d been blind to his parents, to what they’d done to his life.

Femmet wanted to be happy for his sister, he really did, it was a wonderful thing to be granted your first Chant, and normally they would hold a special service to celebrate her and give thanks to Hodon. Normally.

Normally the Priest's daughter wasn’t dead.

Maybe prompted by Femmet's sad look or the stress of using the Chant, but Feme started to cry.

#

A lot had happened while he was asleep. His father had found Alice's dead body and together with Berant and his father, the three had dispatched the tier 2 Wolf Mother, as well as her pack of 30 young wolves.

They were a frightening Job to encounter on a monster as they could create and sustain base tier wolves only, on mana alone. Berants father had managed to ascend, which had made the mood marginally lighter, but the whole town was still grieving his family’s loss.

Femmets family worshipped Hodon, the god of life, and so they were the family people called upon when someone hurt themselves or needed treatment. Unlike the Witch, they didn’t swear at their patients or give them smelly potions which hurt just as much they helped sometimes.

The whole town was grieving with them. However, Father was holed up in the church, and so it had fallen on Feme to nurse Femmet back to health. Without the Witch’s help, who was apparently still gloating about their loss, she had turned to prayer, and last night, her prayers had been answered.

Femmets mother was just relieved that he was okay, however, and they had spent the day together in mourning. For Femmet, it was torture. He already regretted his decision to leave Alice behind, he’d regretted his decision as soon as he’d awoken and he regretted it still.

His mother and sister didn’t blame him for their loss, to them, he’d just done all that he could in a terrible situation. Of all of them, Femmet cried the hardest that day. It was his fault that Alice was dead.

#

His father had returned the following morning, clad in pristine robes and with a basket of offerings to the family from those in the village who were saddened by their loss and had made the trip to the church to offer their condolences.

Seeing a large number of gifts didn’t improve Femmets mood.

It was a quiet dinner. The laughter which had been present at their table just several nights ago was gone. And for once, Femmet had something else on his mind other than getting as much food into his mouth as physically possible. He knew that he had to tell his family the truth of what happened with Alice because while Hodon was a god of life and not of truth, it had been drilled into him since young, to tell the truth. Femmet decided to make a compromise with his beliefs and spoke up, shattering the icy silence which wrapped the table.

“I have something to say.”

His father paused in his slow movement of transferring food from his plate to his mouth, looking Femmet straight in the eyes, before nodding to himself.

“Out with it then.”

A deep breath, followed by his cutlery landing on the plate, mother was a stickler for manners.

“I … When I was in the grove with Alice…” They were all looking at him now, and it froze him to the spot, but thinking of the looks those wolves had given him, compared to that, this was nothing. Femmet shrugged the sensation off and continued speaking.

“There were too many of them, even with the sword, it was too much. I just … I couldn’t handle it. If there was any other way I would have done it. I just took hold of the only way out of there, the only way I could get out of there alive.”

He looked them in the eyes now and saw how the light in their eyes changed from sadness to anger after he spoke his next words.

“I … I ascended while I was out there. I’m a Warrior now.”

#

Travelling was a curious thing, Femmet reflected.

The road to Osswold, it was long and hard with the occasional hole which he had to watch out for. Nevertheless, he was enjoying the journey, it was fun to see new people, to see other villages both larger and smaller than the one he’d come from.

But the curious thing about traveling was that with every person he met, the friendships back home, and his relationship with his family, they all seemed so small. He still missed his sister though, and the memory of the man that he’d thought his father to be. Even the people he met for barely a couple of hours, they all had something to be doing, somewhere to be going. Compared to his family, who were content to live the same days over and over for the rest of their lives … it just seemed so pointless.

Very quickly, he had cast aside the memory of what he’d done, his Intuition helping him in that regard, doing some subconscious mental housekeeping while he slept. Like most mental skills, it had a rather broad function but wasn’t especially powerful so it also provided him with a mental boost, or so he’d been told, which contributed to making his mind healthier and allowing it to do things it couldn’t before.

He travelled for two weeks, his short sword saving him from the wandering beast and scaring off the violent looking men. The whole village had celebrated his departure, showering him with gifts of food and money, both because he was a Priests son and out of pity. The moment he’d chosen this Job to save his sister, his future in the village was doomed. Above all else they were practical people, that was what the Witch had always said, and there was no way for him to continue his Job there.

His gifts from the villagers had let him sleep in a bed when he had the opportunity, but more often than not he slept in a bush just off of the side of the road. It was more comfortable than he was expecting though, but that was mostly due to the burst of levels he’d received in the wolves' care.

It took him two weeks of travel, passing through denser and larger towns as he went, but eventually, he reached the walls of Osswold.

He heard the bells before he saw the city clearly, a clear sound which rejuvenated him and sent him scrambling up the hill ahead of him. He saw it then. The city was … he didn’t have words to describe how large it was.

He looked down on the city as the hill he stood on gave him a wide view of the entire city.

Thick walls encircled the city, with some small buildings outside, and another layer of thick walls further inwards. Placed around the grey-roofed city was the main attraction of the city. Bell Towers which rang out for every hour of the day. All eleven of them towered over the surrounding buildings, massive constructions of red brick and open-topped roofs, with massive silver bells the size of a house looking out over the city like shining beacons. Osswold, the city of bells.

Supposedly the bells rejuvenated travellers and first-timers to the city.

The gate was easy enough to get through, he just showed his recommendation letter to the guard and they gave him directions when he asked.

His father was enraged when Femmet told him that he’d become a Warrior. He’d bellowed for hours that he’d lost two children until finally sending him out of the house. Mother was more compassionate, giving him a blanket to last through the night until they sorted him out later but they still refused to allow him to stay under their roof.

A Warrior was someone who could only grow through death, they could not gain Job levels any other way, and so was almost the opposite of everything Hodon stood for. Hodon allowed the taking of life but only under strict circumstances. Not even mentioning they’d lost a massive investment, they were both angry. That night in the rain and the cold had only helped reinforce the image and long-forgotten memory that his parents were not good people.

Pious people, but not good.

Nevertheless, he was still their son, or so mother had said to him, and so father had written him a letter of recommendation and sent him off to a place which would receive him.

The recruitment office asked for his age which Femmet was initially concerned about. It wasn’t a problem however, as they simply said he would have to remain in training until he turned sixteen. Femmet had spoken to many people on his way to Osswold and had learned there was a war going on, which possibly contributed to their willingness to accept volunteers, even if they were underage.

Just like that, Femmet joined the army.

#

The training was hard.

Femmet had always had a hard life, farming was not easy and his hands were so calloused by the time he was eleven they had no trouble holding a blade by the edge and not being cut.

Nevertheless, most of the people he trained with were men, who looked down on him for trying to be a soldier. ‘Little soldier’, they called him. They were so much better than him with a sword that it was a joke.

Femmet struggled every day, even to keep up with the most basic of exercises for the entirety of the first month. When sparring, which Femmet thought would be where he proved his worth, the gap in experience was quickly revealed. He learned fast but these men had been learning most of their lives, and so his morale was quickly drained away with every successive beat down.

Most of the people here were foundlings, who’d been taken in by the city when they were little and trained their entire lives to be a Soldier. They were all waiting to turn sixteen and they could be moved off to the frontline, where they were warring against a relentless enemy to the south.

They were all the same age, but the gap between them was immeasurable. They were men, with cold eyes and even colder fists, while he was still a boy, who up to a month ago had been learning how to become a Farmer.

#

After the first month, Femmet finally woke up with considerably fewer bruises than when he’d first started. The other trainees had stopped the bullying or at least it came less often now that they’d accepted him and that he was here to stay.

Not that he minded sleeping outside so much, as the cold did so little against him.

He nodded to the leader of the group Kyal, who’d been a foundling since he could barely walk and was a level 6 Soldier. He was sitting up against the wall as he looked over the room. He probably hadn’t slept much. From what Femmet had learned of him, his skills were focused on endurance and outlasting his opponents. Nevertheless, his skill with the blade was so great he could beat most Initiates in half a breath.

The man's steely gaze locked onto him, and he motioned at him to sit down even as the others got up and went to the mess hall. Once the room of evenly spaced beds was empty he slowly got to his feet and walked over to him with a measured pace.

Femmet swallowed.

Kyal was known for being ruthless to the group, but he’d been a fair man from what Femmet had seen of him. His mind raced as he went over the last couple of days in his head to remember if he’d gotten in any fights or done something to annoy one of the other trainees.

Kyal stopped a meter away, and his hand drifted towards the blade which hung at his waist.

“We’ll be getting a special instructor today.”

“Oh … uh, okay.”

He chuckled to himself.

“It’s important you pay attention, but just don’t embarrass the group. Just keep your head down, this is mostly for us and not for you. You’ve been doing well so far, so don’t go messing it up yet by taking something which isn’t meant for you.”

And then he left, leaving Femmet alone with his thoughts.

#

The instructor was an older man, who wore fine clothes and had a shiny sword at his belt. The drill sergeant didn’t have to call a halt to the sparring as the initiates were already lining up in front of the man as soon as he’d entered the yard.

Femmets partner left him on the floor, but he scrambled up off the floor and sat down at the back of the group.

The man didn’t introduce himself, he just spoke directly to the sergeant, but didn’t take his eyes off of the group of initiates sitting before him.

“They’ll be needing iron this time.”

The Sergeant picked on the newest member of the group, a new foundling who was only twelve to help him bring the cart of swords around. Once everyone had a sword, the lesson began.

“You,” He pointed to someone sitting in the second row, “demonstrate the basic movements.”

The man shakily walked over to the instructor and angled himself side on, before moving into a procession of sword movements which while slow-moving, followed on from each other, the movement finished with him striking the floor which rang out with a ringing sound, eerily similar to the bells which rang out throughout the day.

He sat back down with a smile on his face however, one which the instructor echoed with his own face.

He walked back and forth while speaking to the group.

“As always, I don’t have much time to teach you. I’ll do what I can in the time I have, however.

What your fellow initiate just demonstrated was the basic movements of Osswolds sword art, which was developed by King Tiberius the First over two hundred years ago, in an effort to create a unifying art for both the nobility and men at arms of the time. This sword art turned this nation from a small nation to one of the greatest powers on the northern continent.

King Tiberius was the man who built the bell towers which the city is so famous for. This sword art is a reflection of the city's strength and the nation's strength, which is why initiates are required to have Basic proficiency at the bare minimum, before representing the city in combat.

Nevertheless, it is both a privilege and an honor to be able to learn it, and you would do well to listen carefully to the words I speak, both for your military prowess and your social standing later on in life.”

As he spoke he motioned Kyal to stand, who looked both proud and deeply uncomfortable, which was an unusual thing to see on the stoic man.

“As so many of you are graduating this year, the city has decreed that Corporal Kyal will be taking command of his own unit on the frontline, with many of you taking the places in said unit. If you require further teaching in the sword art at the Basic Proficiency level then he has been ordered to oblige you. For today, however, I will be teaching you how to acquire proficiency in the Intermediate to Advanced stages.”

The instructor then discarded his overcoat and then his shirt in front of the group before drawing his sword.

“To practice at the Basic Proficiency level, all you need to do is repeat the movements while also picturing the bell towers. To truly practice the sword art, however, and to harness this great nation's true strength, the very essence of the silver bells has to be imbued into your every sword strike. To vanquish your enemies with the power of the city is your privilege as soldiers of this great nation.”

The look from those assembled must have mirrored Femmets to some extent, as the man chuckled before wiping his head clean of nonexistent sweat.

“I know, I know, it didn’t make much sense to me as well the first time I heard it. I find that with initiates a practical demonstration often works far better than a speech.”

The man drew his sword.

Slowly, the already silver sword grew brighter, until it left white spots in his vision. He practiced the motions the other initiate had gone through earlier, but his sword left a silver light in the air which was blindingly bright.

“Anyone with Intermediate Proficiency can use this technique. Effectively it’s just coating or imbuing your sword with the energy of the sword art, which most sword arts use as their Intermediate Stage. This energy will burn through flesh and skin and bone, as well as being indescribably painful if it so much as touches the skin. It is very likely that the vast majority of your commanding officers and leaders will be at this level in the future and it is also likely that it will be the highest many of you will go when it comes to the Osswold sword art.

But for those amongst you who strive for greatness both for yourself and for this nation, watch and learn.”

The Instructor's body sped up suddenly, and Femmets Intuition scrambled into overdrive as it struggled to keep up with and recover his movements. In the short time which he’d had the skill, this was the hardest he’d ever seen it work. Even though it was just a mental Skill, the energy behind the dance-like display in front of him was making his heart beat faster and faster in time as the movements in front of him accelerated. There were words that the Instructor was saying which Femmet was unable to hear properly, or it would be more accurate to say that he was too focused on one of his senses to pay the others any mind.

There were silver afterimages left behind in his movements, which seemed to step away from the whirlwind of motion and form their own separate silver bodies that stood at the guard position around him. They were almost see-through and with the light behind them and beneath their metallic skin, it made them seem almost unreal.

Above him meanwhile, a large silver bell seemed to form in the air above him. The bell seemed more real, and cast a shadow over the training grounds with its incredible size. It was similar in size to the ones he’d seen here almost every day, Femmet realised.

Abruptly, the whirlwind of motion ceased and the silver bodies around the Instructor still stood at a guard position, holding their shiny swords in a silver wall between the crowd of initiates and the Instructor.

The man raised his sword up high, before suddenly bringing it down. In Femmets mind, however, his Intuition was slowing the moment down several times, letting him see the hidden details of the art. He saw the blindingly bright light on the man's sword, followed by the solid-looking bell, and finally the shimmering but fragile-looking soldiers. He saw the sweat on the man, his look of intense concentration, the smile in his eyes and from his mouth he saw he was a sustained puff of white fog.

The sword hit the ground, allowing Femmet to see on a much larger scale and with a much clearer image, a version of what the other Initiate had done earlier. The light on the sword seemed to slide off when it impacted with the ground, spreading into a circle around him, before rising up and reinforcing the bell above him, increasing the intensity of its brightness, before it slowly began to tilt to the side.

The bell rang out, releasing a massive circle of silver energy which blasted outwards in a wave over Femmets head, stirring up his hair and the hair of the initiates around him. Femmet stood up to watch as the circle covered the entire city, while not diminishing in brightness the entire time.

With a grunt, the Instructor heaved his sword up and over his shoulder. Although visibly sweating and breathing heavily from performing that sword dance in front of the group, the man still sported a smile, finally catching up to his eyes which had betrayed his enjoyment of the dance.

“So, *huff* *hah*, any questions gentlemen?”

Unfortunately, Femmet knew that this was what Kyal had warned him against, he was still too much of an outsider to be worth an answer from someone this powerful, at least in the eyes of the Initiates.

Either way, it was irrelevant, as Femmet could feel his head was getting too hot and his eyes too watery.

#

The burned-out boy rose to his feet unsteadily, prompting the unfriendly gazes of his peers from around him, which quickly softened as he once again collapsed to the floor he was very familiar with, but this time with blood streaming from his nose.

#

It was the now-familiar pain that woke Femmet up first. His eyes didn’t want to open as his brain struggled to catch up to what he’d done.

He’d really fucked up this time. Kyal was going to kill him for ruining the instructor's demonstration, whoever they were.

They seemed important, with their shiny clothes and sword, not to mention that he’d made silver bells appear out of nothing! Femmet could feel himself getting his head around the idea of what the instructor had been talking about, just from his words alone. He’d gotten the notification that he’d reached basic proficiency in the sword art, what he’d been working towards all this time, and he’d fucked it up. All he had to do was keep his head down, not ask questions, and he would have benefited immensely. A groan escaped his lips at the thought.

“Hey, he’s awake!”

Femmet was furious with himself, now he’d attracted the attention of the trainees. Great. Maybe if he pretended to be extremely weak, they’d make it easier on him. He’d finally gotten them to stop treating him like a piece of shit as well!

Femmet faintly fluttered his eyelids open. What he saw surprised him.

The whole group was gathered around. The surprising part was none of them looked mad! Okay, maybe one or two in the back row, but most of them just had looks of relief or concern on their faces. Making his way through from the back, was Kyal. He got down on one knee next to Femmets bunk, still with that expressionless face looking back at him.

“You okay recruit?”

Femmet quickly forgot about pretending to be weak and put his back up against the back of his bunk bed.

“Yes sir. I don’t really know what happened back there. Sorry if I ruined the presentation for everyone.”

Kyal waved it off.

“The General didn’t even blink and carried on as usual. Have to say though, you chose the worst time to pass out.”

General!? Wait what did he mean the worst time?

“What?”

“Yeah after you left he gave one-on-one tutoring to most of us, sad to say it, but you’re probably the weakest with a sword at the moment.”

“But …” Femmet’s flustered reply died on his lips as he looked at the grins of the men around him. Kyal’s face remained as impassive as always, however.

“Rest up quick. Words come down from on high that we’re being deployed to handle a rogue Novice in one of the stable towns.” With that, Kyal turned and left without another word.

“Hey Kyal, that was a joke right? Right?”

#

Femmet recovered quickly and found he gained more from the incident than he expected.

Within a week, he was outfitted and sent off on his first mission. What he first thought was going to be a training mission, to bloody the blades of those in his group who hadn’t seen combat, turned into a whole new frontline, a war which threatened to engulf his nation from within.