Part 1 – An old grudge

In the entirety of the young academic’s life, spanning nearly forty earthly years, never was a loss so great, never was it as grievous and painful to him as the death of his treasured follower, student, friend, and beloved most of all. He sobs, uncontrollably shedding bitter tears of true sadness and grief, letting them drip on his hands enclosing the cold stiffening hands of his beloved. His heart pains him terribly as if it is plucked out of his chest and crushed in the tormenting grip of dark and frosty despair. In all sincerity, he prays in his heart to the gods of life and death to give him a miracle, which only falls on their deaf and dead ears, triggering him to bellow a horrified dark screech that drowns in the midst of the wilderness, smothered under the deafening noise of the falling raindrops that shatter and scatter in the mud.

Tsp! Mud splatters quietly to the sharp and slick footsteps of an odd fellow that slowly closes in to our lad. Raindrops fragment into smaller glittering droplets as they roll down repelled by the tightly woven fabric that makes the darkened cloak of crimson that he wears. Scars of indignation, they itch and sting painfully, hidden under his blackened iron mask.

“KIIEE, KIEE, KUUHH, HAHAHAHA!” Delightedly watching the lad grieve, he inches closer and shrieks in shrill laughter and joy to find how his prey easily falls to his devious plot. Vengeance, he rejoices the repayment of humiliation that he suffered from the lads’ hands. He fixes his reptilian eyes at him, hoping to bind him frozen on the spot like in his previous bout with him. Alas, the lad returns a sharp, piercing, and defiant glare that overpowers the fear that the magick curse evokes upon him, holding the odd fellow a step back.

“this is your doing… ISN’T? CRIMSON!” Recognizing the odd fellow, the weakened glow in the lad’s eyes intensifies in red bloodshot madness. He tightens his grip on his beloved’s hands.

The odd fellow bows and smiles under the mask with a glaring hint of sarcasm in his eyes. “Wrong, Knight Scarlet is thy new name, KIIE, KIIE, KUUHH, HAHAHAHA!” Reckless, it is indeed foolish to reveal his new identity to the lad, but since he knows that his plot already succeeds, he doesn’t exhibit even the slightest hesitation. Torment before death – that is what he is after. He continues, “Before I send you to your grave, what are your final words?”

“GO TO HELL!” cries the lad.

The itch and stinging pain emanating from the villain’s hidden scars intensify and so does his anger. He casts his glittering dragon engraved gauntlet towards the lad, gathering spiraling flames from the air to it, compressing them to a glowing ball of blinding crimson light in his palm.

With adrenaline surging in his major blood veins, the lad’s fury helps him overcome his weakness. Recognizing the danger, he hurriedly straps around his body the remains of his beloved and leaps as hard as the strength of his legs will allow. Little does he know that the surge of hormones of rage unshackles the hidden strength in his legs and other bodily muscles, permitting him to use force beyond his normal means.

Fired from the villain’s arm, the blazing crimson fireball flies towards our lad, baking the mud and transforming into ash any plant matter that is in its path, spiraling at a blistering speed as it closes into its target. Hitting a tree trunk on impact, it shatters like a ball of fiery water, splattering and scattering flames on its surroundings, ultimately charring the thick aged tree trunk that it hits.

Unscathed, the lad, strapped with the remains of his beloved, flies away, evading the impact by the strength of the giant leap that the hidden strength of his rage bestows. Tens of yards away, he plows his feet into the mud, unknowingly using his newly found strength to stop the drag of inertia that pushes him from his inevitable crash against solid obstacles. He fixes the remains strapped to his back, tightening his grip on them, and continues his flight, seeing that the villain is already on the pursuit. He jumps side to side to avoid the incoming crimson fireballs that his pursuer hails at him. Normally, he should already be exhausted, but the hormones numb the pain of his breaking muscle tissues, allowing him to go forward, faster than his usual speed.

The hail of fireballs stops, and eventually, he loses the pursuer, thus he stops momentarily in a quiet spot in the forest. Hidden under the thick cover of vegetation, where he reckons that the villain will not find him, he rests Nina against a giant tree trunk. He quietly admires the lass’ quiet and peaceful sleeping expression, making rage smolder intensely in his chest, wishing to get revenge – fury darkens his heart and drives him mad, illogical, and unreasonable.

Hearing the remote rustling of leaves, he focuses his full and undivided attention in finding the villain. He straps what little pocket grenades he has left into fist-sized rocks, lending them more weight and force should they be thrown towards the target. For easy carrying, he tucks a number of them securely to his vest. Then, he leaps on a sturdy branch of a tall, tall tree to scout the surroundings.

Spotting activity from afar, he leaps to the east to closely observe. And their eyes meet – he finds the target, and the target finds him as well, much to his misfortune. And like a ninja, he jumps off the tree and throws a smoke grenade to the ground to erase his presence under the cover of the thick black wall of smoke. He then drops to the ground and rolls against the mud, allowing him to grab a few pebbles by the puddles, which he instinctively weaponizes as he slings them flying towards the glowing silhouette of the villain.

The projectiles punch holes in the smoke screen, making a distinct whistling noise as they slice through the wind. But feedback, they return nothing, as if they accelerated to the void and never returned; they vanish without a trace behind the glowing shadow of the villain. Upon clearing of the smoke, it becomes evident that the villain remains standing, without a scratch, protected by a mysterious ghostly shroud of glowing crimson flames.

Gritting his teeth in fury and vexation, the lad is prepared to accept much, given his knowledge of how the villain escaped the deadly explosions in their last bout. He leaps back and hides himself under the cover of greenery, guerilla style, hailing more stones at the target as he runs around. To his misfortune, the attacks are rendered ineffective by the villain’s devious shroud of flames – it reacts like a creature of menace, expanding and devouring the projectiles in its wake, pulverizing them into fine, fine dust.

Bewildered, our lad is lost in the sea of thoughts, worrying about the possible failure of his tactics, not to mention, he is still quite ill – his head aches a little, and his body temperature soars high. Fear as well as the god of death in black smiles mischievously at the young hero, whispering to his steaming ears – chills creep in as the thin film of sweat covering the entirety of his skin freezes, a ticklish sensation of a thousand tiny prickling needles speedily travels from the spine up.

But vengeance being thicker and warmer than the icy feeling of fear prevails in his mind; with a heart hardened by fury, he steels himself, resolved to throw everything to get even with the villain. He sends a hail of larger stones at the villain, coupled with all the explosive charges that he prepared for an emergency measure. He drops to the ground and rolls in the mud a distance away as the charges detonate – a large ball of fire expands and engulfs the surrounding trees followed by the rising to the skies of a black mushroom cloud of doom, resulting in shockwaves that blows and rolls our hero farther into the rocks.

Smarting to his injuries, the lad slowly rises up from the mud as he watches the small area of the forest burn – the clouds blacken to the rising of the thick smoke and crackles of fire can be heard. He is satisfied and at the same time horrified by the catastrophic effects to nature of the weapons he devised, but either way, he feels the serenity of having served his purpose – to get justice for the misdeed the villain did.

Close to exhaustion, he returns to the location of his beloved, and after a few moments of thought at the sight of her, deeply asleep, grave suffering for the loss returns to him. In the cold, trapped in the insulating barrier of the cacophonic noises that the crashing of rain droplets against the rocks generates, he weeps uncontrollably to the remains, consumed by the terrible grief that stricken his heart, he weeps to protest his fate to the heavens, stopping at nothing but to the fading of his consciousness.

Revenge, as satisfying as it is, cannot bring the dead back to life.

Part 2 – Ricardo’s stand

Holding tightly to his great pole weapon, the old spearmaster busts out of the smoke screen, narrowly escaping the encirclement of his adversaries. Bowmen greet his exit with a shower of arrows, which he gracefully deflects with a mere spin of his trusty weapon. He returns the favor by accelerating towards them the sharpened head of his halberd in a full horizontal swing, which results in the detachment of their upper halves from the rest of their body – the remaining bowmen stand stupefied at the scene of rupturing blood that their initial reaction is to leap themselves back a distance and hide behind obstacles.

Ricardo, being only interested in escaping and regrouping with the lad, ignores them and runs deeper into the woods. He drops and detonates his last smoke grenade on his trail to obscure the vision of his numerous pursuers, and to add more to their confusion, he changes his path. Seeing his masterful work, he gladly wipes the sweat off his brow and smiles as runs deeper and deeper into the woods. BAGH! Trees shake and their leaves fall off to the minor quaking of the earth and the rocks beneath his feet, followed by tremors lasting a moment – critters of the earth emerge from their burrows, run out, and scatter into the wild. Danger brews – Ricardo feels a slight heaviness in his heart imploding – he recognizes the familiar signature of the tremors, footsteps they are of the rumored giant of the mountains, the dreaded blue ogre!

Forward or back, he consumes his precious time stroking his frizzy and silvery beard, wisely evaluating the situation. Unfortunately his time is cut shot as he spots and is spotted from afar back by his numerous pursuers, dragging their gleaming weapons of sharpened steel with them, which leaves him with little choice but to press on forward to their pace in an effort to lure them to the monsters.

A distance ahead, a squad of monsters explores the forest, looking for a meal. The blue ogre himself, being the tallest and largest of them all, towering about fifteen feet high, leads the expedition. It fells down an offending tree on his way by slamming against it a thick, dense, and unworked tree trunk that is tapered by rot to the handle, its oversized tool and weapon. Armed with blackening crude, heavy, and rusty axes, cleavers, clubs, spears, daggers, and rotting wooden bows, the accompanying green forest trolls and goblins numbering to about a twenty, follow their chief’s path, rallying forth to its earth shaking footsteps.

Now tailed by an army of pursuers, Ricardo bravely dashes towards the monsters. He slides down the mud and picks up a sharp piece of obsidian stone as he swats by his pole weapon the incoming rain of arrows from both the goblins and his pursuers. He rolls and jumps to the side, and in a full spin slings the sharpened piece of stone at the blue ogre, hitting it by the right eye. Gooey green fluids rupture violently from its eye, enraging it greatly.

Covering the injury with one hand, the monster rampages by slamming the ground down with its weapon, the massive unworked tree trunk. The earth shakes; blades of leaves as well as dirt and debris get blown in the wake of a whirlwind that ensues from the catastrophic combination of the ogre’s strength and its weapon’s massive drag. The resulting shock blows Ricardo away to the shrubs and to the trees, causing him minor injuries – blood runs down from his scraped left brow to his chin. He narrowly avoids death.

But the old spearmaster is fortunate enough – as planned, his pursuers crash right into the monsters’ formation. The monsters wreak havoc across their ranks, raining upon them a hail of obsidian arrows and rocks, the courtesy of the blue giant. The arrows slice and pierce through what little bodily protection the humans have, while the rocks, combined with their massive weight and momentum, crush whoever it lands on. And the trolls as well dash forward and sweep through the humans’ formation with their rusty axes, whose heavy weight and mechanical advantage easily punch through their opponents’ armor. Blood rains, and a maelstrom of chaos ensues in the cacophony of dying screams and wails, which routes the army of humans away. The monsters, green and blue skinned alike, all stronger than their human counterparts, delight in their pursuit of the running men.

Under the cover of confusion, Ricardo slips away from his pursuers, but ultimately is unsuccessful in losing them all, a platoon escapes from the clash with monsters and tails him still. His eyes and lips contort to the stinging pain and bewilderment, thinking of the reason for the men’s unrelenting pursuit. Normally, bandits would have already taken away the valuables from their carriages and wagons and would have not engaged in a mad pursuit like the one that he’s in, thus he concludes that it must be an assassination plot and not just a mere ambush by bandits. It pains him more to think that someone has enough interest and influence to send an army of assassins after their motley crew of slaves.

BOOM! An explosion shakes the ground and a black mushroom cloud rises steadily to the sky, which signals to Ricardo the location of the lad. He fears that the lad must be in trouble, but thinks going there pursued by the platoon of assassins will only bring more harm, thus he continues his mad dash towards the wilderness. However, the signal is not alien to the assassins; a majority of them diverges from the platoon and dashes towards the source of the explosion. His headache compounds a hundredfold.

Gritting his teeth, Ricardo hurries his conservative pace to outrun his pursuers of a mere squad. East, he cuts a path through the shrubs and goes through a detour, hoping that he could catch up to the assassins headed towards the young Linus. Breathing and sweating heavily, a thick fog of smoke and a row of blazing trees greet him on the way. He finally catches up to the assassins who oddly stand by the scene of the disaster. In their midst stands a man emitting a familiar ethereal glow of crimson light – he wears a tattered battle worn clothing and is covered in a web of hideous pink and purplish wrinkly scars that spans his face entirely. Out of his disfigured, hardened, and hardly present eyelids, his cold reptilian eyes pop out and scan the surroundings, evoking fear even in the heart of the battle-hardened spearmaster – never had he seen someone look so hideous.

Cold sweat drips from Ricardo’s chin – he might have already the answer to the mystery. Prone, he hastily crawls to and through the shrubs and away from the scene only to find the lad in a quiet spot several tens of yards away, resting peacefully, leaning collapsed and exhausted in the bosom of his comrade, Nina.

He walks to them and pats the lass in the shoulder, whispering “Wake up, Nina!”

Unmoved, the couple continue their peaceful slumber. Ricardo runs out of patience; he tightly holds to her shoulder and shakes her violently, calling to her “Wake up! Wake up!” The only feedbacks he receives are the odd stiffness in her flesh and the icy sensation from her skin that quickly creeps and spreads to his palm and to his nerves. His other hand lets go of the pole arm, dropping it to the mud; numbing chills encroach his chest and his heart – he bites down his lower lip bitterly.

Leaves rustle and dirt splatters to the numerous clattering entities that plunge in and out of the mud puddles; cold wind blows behind Ricardo’s sensitive ears, upsetting his sense of danger. Like a good soldier, the old spearmaster promptly recovers his senses. He stands up, kicks his trusty halberd from the mud up to his arms and spins it in the air as he faces his opponents numbering about several dozens in encirclement. Ricardo makes his last stand in bravado – he reveals to them his brightest and widest smile, expressing great displeasure as he brandishes his halberd, which bloodstained edge glints under the weakened luminance of the dim cloudy skies. Loose leaflets and blades of grass fly around him and whirl around his foes, blown by a strong gust of wind. Trapped, he keeps his enemies a distance away, only by the length of his trusty pole arm.

Part 3 – Aria’s move

Riding tall on her white royal steed, Aria’s hair shines golden even to the faintest light of the cloudy skies, and light, each individual strand flies and flutters weakly as she glides past the static wind. Even in a bad day, the princess’ strong emerald eyes shine brilliantly, showing a strong will and determination. Like a war prince, she rallies a cavalry regiment, a hundred men strong, making the earth tremble in her might as she gallops northward toward the central hills.

Accompanying her to the right is a lone soldier who manages to match the speed of her gallops on foot. On the run, he shoulders with little effort a massive steel spiked mace about twice his height and probably a hundred fold of his own weight. Oddly enough, he leaves only a trail of light footsteps behind even though his weight combined with his weapon’s mass should be enough to sink him deep, deep down in the mud without the chance of any retribution. He wouldn’t have come if the princess persisted not, especially for the matters regarding his own…

“Father! Frederick is clearly plotting evil against Sir Daedalus’ son, Linus! And how about the dragons? Do something!”

“My hands are shackled to duty, my love. I can only lend you a hundred men.”

“A hundred horsemen!”

“I can’t give you that much. Your grandfather, the king, needs them. His anger will burn upon us!”

“Not if this chance secures you the right to ascend. Grandfather will be happy to hear, the south is good as ours. We will burn them barbarians alive, and we will no longer have any enemies.”

“Sir Daedalus, I’d like you to come as well. Lead us to victory.”

Julius remembers the words; he remembers the charm and the formidable strength welling in Aria’s character. It isn’t evident in her rough and unrefined exterior, manners and proper conduct, but she has grown and changed so much since the last time she met him. Now, he cannot refuse, and not even her own father whom she binds under the spell of charisma and highly persuasive arguments is able to resist. Her eyes resemble those of the king’s, and the sharpness of her insight, a mirror of his own son’s – both strong and wise, adventurous and curious, proud and noble. Looking at her eyes directly reminds him of a lion, one that will proudly defend her kingdom and her people, one that will conquer her enemies, and of course, one that will sink a thousand ships!

He’s aware of the fact that many seek her hand, and he is fortunate to have been given that by his dear friend, the prince who shyly grieves the countless misdemeanors involving her wild daughter. Only if he could, Julius would grow a pair of wings and soar to the highest heavens, knowing that the princess has taken a liking of his son, which only increases his future security. He only worries deeply of his son’s misdeeds and hopes that the princess can forgive them. Spare the rod, spoil the child, a fist he clenches reserved to pound the skull of his naughty one for not knowing how to act prim and proper in front of the royals.

“Sir Daedalus, worry not about Linus. He’ll be mine, and I’ll be yours as well.” To her devious smile, shivers shoot from his spine up – Julius’ ears are tickled to hear her words; they’re all warm and flushed. And with his fortune, even the god of death now smiles upon him, gesturing an invitation to his kingdom of Hades by the Styx with his white and bony index finger – he can die now of happiness. Triggered, he punches the devils and knocks them back to the spiritual realm stars and stars away with his free fist as he continues his run. ‘That one should have been for my son…’ he murmurs to himself.

“Your highness, look!” Elliot, who is at her left, points his lance a distance away, spotting the wagons from afar. Led by the princess, the company charges speedily to the spot, only to be welcomed by the strongly reeking rusty stench of death that emanates from the maimed and arrow stricken bodies littering the ground – still fresh, their blood is washed away by rainfall, reddening the mud puddles as they mix in, darkening them and blurring them further. The princess feels heaviness in her heart, grieved by her admired’s wasted effort to free them slaves, though she is mistaken – they are now truly free from the shackles of the mortal world.

Her heart is relieved after a little investigation – none of the trio is found in the scene, a strong indication that they must have escaped. In a heartbeat, the party follows the trail of death in the woods, spotting armed dead men every league as they gallop their way deeper and deeper. A shock, earthly tremors and a bloodied mound of dead men greet them midway – their deceased mouths are still widely open, and their screams can still be heard, frozen and engraved in the horrified expression of their distorted faces. Even the battle-ready knights themselves in their thick, thick full plate armor, are not numb and immune from the chilling fear and disgust that the contorted images evoke in them.

“LOOK OUT!” Salivating bubbly drool, a creature of green skin and blackened rotten and jagged yellowing teeth dashes inhumanly and speedily in all fours from the woods, jumping a knight in the face, dismounting him and stabbing his visor deep with its darkened and rusty steel dagger – blood spurts violently from the helm. Wide eyed, the rest of knights watches the numerous hideous creatures come out of the trees, jumping them in all four corners.

“GET YOUR ACT TOGETHER!” Elliot impales with his lengthy lance the goblin that took out one of his fellow knights. Bright blue, the gems embedded in the joints of his armor glow – he spins his lance mightily in the air, sending away flying the impaled creature, knocking away with it a few others. Even brighter, the blue gems in his gauntlets illuminate in mystic energy – he parts the air with a powerful horizontal slice of his lance, detaching the heads and appendages of the creatures he just blown with the previous move. Green gooey juices spurt and rain down, baptizing the knights with rot in their shining armors. Even the princess’ golden hair isn’t spared, earning the good knight her contempt.

The knights in the strength of their armor and mystical equipment meet the charging squad of trolls. Bloody eyed, the creatures stand as tall as humans can be in average, and their muscles, all buffed; their oily skin are crawling with veins of deep green. Recklessly, they charge and swing down their dull yet massive darkened rusty steel axes against the armor clad men, but without surprise, they are met with equivalent resistance, evaded and blown away by the smite to the jaw of the knights’ shields or impaled in their long, long lances. The glowing gems in the knights’ armor energizes them, providing their bodies with ample strength to match the inhumanly fortitude of the trolls. Atop their glorious steeds, they maim, impale, and mangle the creatures helplessly with the aid of the glowing mystic energies and their mighty lances – the act the bad dead men on the mound were unable to do.

And when they thought the danger has passed, obsidian arrows and rocks rain down from the sky, injuring a few. On impact the obsidian arrowheads shatter, fragmenting into shards of sharp and deadly glass that pierce through the skin of the knights’ unprotected body parts, while the falling rocks seriously dent parts of the armor hit, causing the men bludgeoning injuries. Culprits, the giant blue ogre and his company of goblin archers, delightedly watch them from a distance, preparing for another round.

“Take cover! MISSA SANCTUARIUM!” The princess yells, waving her bright glowing hand in the air, pointing it to the sky – green glowing ethereal particles rain down, enveloping the injured, gradually closing, pulling together, and restoring their broken bones and wounds. A delight to the knights, but a pain to the princess – breathing heavily, she grabs and grips her forehead tightly, and her nose starts to bleed – a sharp stabbing pain shoots in her head intensely.

“YOUR HIGHNESS!” Elliot approaches the princess, lending her a piece of cloth for the bloody nose. Then he offers her a ride on his steed instead, but is stubbornly refused; his anger burns on the rest of the injured knights, looking at them with vexation. Veins popping out of his temple, he circles on them knights, yells “YOU IDIOTS! Your incompetence pains her highness!” and rallies the men toward the goblins. “CHARGE!”

Under the intense hail of obsidian arrows and rocks, the knights maneuver their steeds left and right, evading the incoming projectiles with ease. But not enough, the danger of the giant blue ogre lingers – it slams the unworked tree trunk down towards the charging knights, which they evaded, too, by splitting their formation, allowing them to go around the giant, unharmed. In a split second, the knights charge forth the company of goblin archers and trample them over in their steeds, stabbing and impaling them with their lances, eliminating the threat.

Moments later, the blue giant ogre has already turned around and caught up to the knights, pounding and shaking the earth with each step that its massive feet make, leaving humongous prints on the ground – the origin of the mystery of bigfoot, perhaps. Then it jumps high to the air to gather momentum and brings down with it in a big, big swing from the sky the massive unworked tree trunk, exploding and breaking into blocks, chips, and splinters as it lands down and meets an equal opposition, conjuring a whirlwind in the process. And as its feet land down, they blow the mud and dirt to spike up and around in the wind, shaking the earth and intensifying the storm, blowing some of them knights off their steeds.

Closing in, Julius meets eye to eye with the ogre, whose madness rages wildly after witnessing the deed which leads to the failure of his attack – in collision, the champion destroys with one swing of his massive steel mace its treasured lone weapon, the unworked tree trunk. And in a last attempt, the ogre throws its knuckle flying towards the man who evades it simply by leaning back. Just in a split second, the champion recovers and swings down his massive mace into the gigantic arm, exploding and severing it from the giant – its deafening scream echoes mountains and mountains away.

The champion then kicks the earth, springs up in the air and spins following up with a swing in full momentum, holding tightly into his ginormous mace.

“FULL SWING!” hammering down, he slams the massive lump of steel on the giant’s head, slugging it flat down the earth as it explodes a volcanic eruption – green goo of rot spurts violently in the air and rains down.

“Look, there!” shortly after Julius gives the giant his finishing blow, the princess points to the rising black mushroom smoke to the east. As she has spied on the lad’s activities recently, she is fully aware of the existence of gunpowder and what it can do, the courtesy of the blabbermouth knight, Albert, for leaking the secret to her. Knowing much, she easily connects the black smoke and the smoke magick tricks that the lad used in his battle with Freddie. She knows that the lad must be somewhere in that area.

“Let’s go!” The champion immediately replies to the princess, and having proven his worth in front of the knights, he restores their morale, providing them with the necessary encouragement to continue the mission.

Brushing against the leaves of trees, the wind escalates and rain falls down harsher, soaking their outfits heavier and wearing down their horses. Nevertheless, the princess stands undeterred and presses on with the mission, following Julius’ lead. As they get closer, the rising smoke intensifies and grows into a forest fire – rows of trees on the way are alit. In the midst of the growing fire is an empty smoking crater, which by its looks must be the fighting ground of the gods or if not must be those of the feared creatures, dragons, but strangely, the vicious creatures are not known to inhabit the place. With an enchanted look in her eyes, Aria smiles from ear to ear – she can only conclude that the lad’s newest creation is capable of this much destruction.

“Your highness?” Perceptive of the princess’ strange reaction, Elliot asks.

“Linus is close. Let’s find him.” The knights separate in groups to scour the area, while Julius and Elliot joins Aria.

Once more, the rain picks up, and a strong sudden gust of wind blows against Aria’s golden hair, and against some lose leaflets and blades of grass, which whirl about and around the company. In the blur she traces outlines of several men in encirclement, dancing to the mad tune of metals clash and bang together, ganging against the shadow of a lone warrior in their midst. Thus, Princess Aria runs and drags her company along to check the scene.