Everything surprises me. Even when I think I've seen it all, I haven't. How disgusting mankind is capable of being, I am not like them. Not at all. I've grown, developed, and progressed as a 'person' – I see that. But some things... No, some thing within me will never change.

The nails in my skull, red hot and scalding. At times they comes, and I cannot stop them – but I find that when they do, I wouldn't want to.

A group of kids... No... Young men and women, they were old enough to have lost their fire and thus I had no interest in them. They were husks, hollow and sour in my minds eye, I can still smell their impurity. We were made, nephilim, made to be pure – but few nim are, even the devolved monkeys who'd look at me and think us of the same species.

There was a dog... A mutt. Did I do it because it was just like me? I doubt that. Justice is not bright and shining, it is often twisted, warped, rotten corpses left for the crows. I saw them throw that rock at the puppy and that think inside me just... Snapped. It wanted control, and I gave it full rein of my actions.

Four men. Three women. They were laughing when they did it – but I did not. I nailed them to that wall with my bare hands bleeding from punching the stakes flat. I beat them, carefully working my way up their bodies, their frail... Breakable... Bodies. I am so strong now, and I know that my plateau approaches but I still have ways to become even stronger. With a pinch, I can fracture an arm, with a clench – crush skulls. They still look at me like a weakling, just like those men and women did – some defective product. I am, and I recognize that, but I am not weak. I have failed where no primus before had failed, sacrificed when asked – and it had made me mighty beyond recognition of my older self. They can continue believing me weak, this is, and always has been, for me. Me alone, nothing else matters.

I left them hanging and broken, still alive, I did them in enough to ensure no healer could save them. They'd die, only slowly, and still to this day I am glad I did it, I saw something in that pup when I lifted its damaged body from the sand that stays with me still. I liked watching them weep, begging for their lives, threatening me with retribution. Things humans did when staring at the end.

If asked 'what' this thing was, I'm not sure if I could answer. Weakness? Perhaps a certain kind of weakness so common in living things. The fact that this creature had been abused for the enjoyment of others and still saw humans as allies, snuggling up to me immediately. Abused, bruised, looking for some kind of succor. Just like me, I see that now. For so long, I was obsessed with finding some measure of contentment, perhaps.

I need you to love me. I'd beg them to love me, but I don't know how to ask someone for something I could never possibly reciprocate. I want them to see me the way that I see Iscari, to embrace me and offer me everything there is. I don't need them on their knees, I need them to offer me that bond that allows me to offer them the same. There is no servitude to me, I do not demand it, I do not want it. All I've ever wanted was to feel... Something. I could never articulate it, even in my deepest periods of introspection I could never quite understand what kind of person I am. But I know very well how much I want their affection

People saw me do it, nail them to that wall, but nobody accused. In broad daylight. Their grim faces and nervous stares, I wonder what kind of world will be left to the bright ones – a place where they'd watch me do it and say nothing. Quiet acceptance. Tyr, the primus, as is his right.

I am a monster, and I see that in every piece of me now – given time to contemplate who and what I am. Not a monster as one might call a kobold or a kappa, these are just living things. I am a scourge, an aberrant beast, controlled by my deeper impulses. I have killed 4,194 sapient beings, mostly humans. I see this in myself. Who I am, what I've become, but not who I might be in the future. A path lies before me and I'll take it.

No regret, no remorse, no empathy. I feel nothing that might mark me a human, and I know I am not like them. I never was. My mother was something else... Not human. I feel that in me, too.

My mother... Would she be proud of me? Would she fear me? What kind of mother was she to behave like this after our reunion? I lived to avenge her... I deserved more than a brief goodbye and negligence. I deserve. More.

For my entire life, even now, I wanted to be a hero. It was my driving motivation, to stand tall before humanity and bathe in their praise. To defeat the villains, dominate them, remove their ability to bring injustice to the world. But there are no villains. And I am no hero.

Anyone with eyes could see that.

Look at what I've done. Whether intentionally, or not, I am the reaper of a hundred thousand souls – I know of the things I am complicit in. And... What? Should I exalt these things, break down and weep? Feel such powerful regret? No. I don't feel these things at all, there is a rightness to them and I know that I must reach further and continue to labor on this new path of mine. Everything I do, to me, is right – my weakness comes from how the other reflect on me. Now, I know what Alexandros meant when he called this thing a curse. These aspects, those parasites which rule us, bending our psyche to one predilection or another.

I see how they look at me. How they fear me. Even now, in the early days, before all that is coming – the things I've seen...

They should.

The only thing they should feel when observing me...

Is fear.

Terror.

For I am the dark. Edgy, maybe, but I was always sort of that way – unlike my father I've been obsessed with aesthetics since I was young. But it's more than that, every step I take it becomes clearer though I'll admit it is far too muddied for me to see just yet. I think I've come to realize what I'm supposed to do, what I'll eventually do – this plan of Alexandros' was to make them see me and celebrate me. But he has it all wrong.

I will never change, not truly. I can learn to be like them, to emulate their behaviors, to laugh and smile when I'm supposed to. But I'll never be them. Not because I don't feel, I used to think that this gap between me and all the others was a lack of feeling – but it's the opposite. I feel more than any human being should and it's resulted in my deadened senses and need to leech off of them for succor.

Cortus went mad. He was just like us, a primus on the spectrum of emotion – very rare throughout the history of mankind. I'm sure that I'm already mad, long past the point of reasonable sanity whatever the case may be. If I remain overlong around Iscari... I think he'll go mad, too. All I can do is hope, and isn't that ironic? Hope.

Admitting it directly back then would've been impossible, but I had found my purpose. I could labor for decades and they would never call me a hero, or a savior figure – always I would make a mistake and their opinions would twist.

In myself, even in my darkest parts, I know that I am the catalyst to bring a little bit of light back to this terrible place we call our world. That is my purpose.

If I can't be the hero, then I will be the thing that raises one up. It's Iscari, I know it is, and I accept the fact that one day I might become the thing that he has to kill to save the few things I care about.

Hot bread and beer.

Hope, faith, and fear.

[Undated Lexicanum discovered in the Blight Fields following the events of the 7th Great Crusade. Context and voice profile assumed Tyr Faeron. Secured in Reliquary, classified and cataloged as a Black Book class forbidden artifact.]

***

It was a hot day, scorching – actually. There were no clouds, and no real shade of any kind except for that little provided by the arena around them to offer any comfort.

Hot enough to make even Tyr feel uncomfortable, leaving some of the others worse off. One of those days where the cicadas made themselves known, letting their shrill mating cries serve as a true herald of the midsummer haze.

“Is everyone hydrated?” Tyr asked in concern, and they all nodded. Honestly, it was a bit of a stupid question and Lina let him know – squirting an even stream of water from her outstretched finger.

Appreciated, but fairly strange to ask. Water and ice mages didn't just emit water from their hands, they relaxed the atmosphere around others. Made it cooler, milder, as a fire mage could warm their companions near them in the inverse.

Tyr was not given the benefit of that, and nobody knew it – both Rafael and Lina were casting their enchantments on him, but they didn't seen to work. All he could do is suffer through the heat. Heat was fine, but it was the fact that he was exhausted, and the rampant humidity was the worst.

He'd gone through another awakening if Astrid was being honest.

She was unaware, of course, but based on how she'd described the events... It had to be, and it left him weak and drained, not prepared for the fight to come. But it wasn't himself that he was worried about.

Tyr hadn't been the only one to awaken. He'd lied to Alex. Well... Not exactly a lie. He had somehow managed to transit Tiber's infirmity into his own body. But it wasn't so simple as a compacted disc.

The mans spine had been wreathed in impurities, moving in an unnatural direction due to his implants. Cutting off the link of energy that allowed his back to articulate properly, causing a mind quaking amount of pain in the process.

Tyr took those pains, and awakening after expelling them. Tiber did, too. He didn't know it – unconscious as he was. But Tyr had no idea what was about to happen once he discovered this newfound strength. It hadn't just awakened his body, but also his mana core. Now, the old man was a mage and he didn't even know it.

'Old man', too, he looked twenty years younger. Tyr had successfully blamed it on a 'healing spell' – but he was convinced that Tiber was... Well, not. Convinced, that is. Smart enough not to dig any deeper into it, though.

What astonished him most was how violent the awakening had been. In terms of the process, Tiber had it much easier, not nearly so discomforted as Tyr was. Violent in the sense that the man had seen such an insane increase in ability through a single process. He didn't know exactly how far he'd progressed, but it was an order of magnitude several times that which Tyr experienced himself.

“Aaah!!!” Tiber rolled his shoulders under the hot sun and laughed mightily. “I haven't been this excited for a fight since I was young! The sword saint himself!”

“Really? You want to fight Lucian Pelegir?” Tyr asked, skeptical. He didn't know many men who could say that with complete honesty after seeing the man. And Tiber had. He'd been trained by Lucian in his youth, back when he was just the eldest son of a well-to-do merchant prince of Milano.

Or so he said, not as a personal apprentice but part of the now defunct 'saint school' in Varia. Apparently, Lucian had closed it decades ago after growing bored. After that, Tiber had been referred to the Ordo Sicario and became the man he was today. No longer a knight treading the hero's path, but a killer and assassin. “Why?”

“Do you not wish to spar with me?” Tiber asked, smiling. “The student will always wish to challenge the master. It is the way of things, to best your mentor and prove your worth. Obviously impossible for either of us, but he is a great man. Learning from a loss is important.”

“It is a blessing to see you in good spirits, elder.” Samson smirked in contentment. He and Tiber spent much of their time together and always had. Fennic and Mikhail were fair company, but they were rogues, albeit good hearted ones. Not like old Tiberius. Samson was born in the inland jungles and mountains of Agoron, but Tiber had taught him to love the sea. Contentment that came with 'fishing'. Such an entertaining pastime, swimming together in the salty spray and seeing the reefs and coral below the waves. “Let us hope it rubs off on our Tyr.”

“You're talkative all of a sudden too, huh?” Tyr frowned at the big man. Samson was even more laconic than he was, and not quick to show emotion. A stony faced titan, and here he was making jokes and laughing at Tiber's side. On the outside looking in, the man was menacing, violent and masculine, enough to frighten people just by standing around doing nothing.

But he was also one of the friendliest people Tyr had ever met. Samson loved children just as he did, and liked to enjoy the little things in life.

“All warriors, even amongst my people, wish to become a saint. It is the dream of all men and children to rise above the rest. I am excited for what this battle might bring, what enlightenment I might find.”

“Ah...”

–

“Sheesh.” Micah made a wholly unnecessary and rather rude rumbling sound with his lips, but he was never one for tact and composure, so the others barely noticed. “That's just bad luck.”

The Varian team might as well be a single man. But Lucian had yet to draw his blade. Otherwise, they were stacked beyond belief. Enough to reasonably say that they would win the tournament before it had even begun. Currently, the odds were 300:1 in their favor versus Haran. Which... In better terms, that said a lot. As for their fight against the Lyran Republic, the odds were roughly 4000:1, last time Micah had checked.

“It is strange.” Tythas leaned forward to observe, he didn't understand what was happening. It was cool to see a saint, but didn't that ruin the whole point of the tournament? “A saint has never participated in a tournament in recorded history. Why now?”

The Varian team had, one by one, submitted their forfeiture to Leda, much to the crowds confusion.

All humans of course, with the strongest among them by far being an Agoronian shaman. A totem master and spirit summoner that had defeated the entire, and fairly favored Milanese team, all by himself.

Departing the arena with only a brief glance and reciprocated nod to Samson. Leaving Lucian alone at the center of the field facing the Lyran team. Again, some overly dramatic posturing, but the sword saint was called so for a reason. It wasn't an empty title, and every mage present could feel their hackles standing on end just by looking at him. He could be forgiven a drama considering the insane feats he was capable of, even if people had never actually seen them. There were stories abounding...

About how he could kill a man just by glaring at them, which everyone had considered a myth until it had happened in Dorian – the Varian capital.

“Because Tyr angered my father, I think.” Iscari said. Jartor smiled softly at that, but didn't turn his focus away from the field. “I overheard their conversation, he said--”

“Don't.” Jartor said, facing forward. “These things are not for gossiping, it was a conversation in confidence.”

“Yes, primus.” Iscari bowed, grimacing.

“Uncle, Jartor, or Old Man would be more preferable to that.” Jartor snorted. “We do not kneel to our peers, and you are mine just as my sons are.”

What his father Octavian had said troubled Iscari a great deal, though. Embarrass him.

“In any case.” Micah cleared his throat, nervously twiddling his thumbs. He hadn't expected Lucian to actually fight a primus... Even an exiled one, thinking the church would have protested. And for other reasons... “I took all our pool and I bet it on Lyra instead of Varia...”

“You did what!?”

“Listen!” Micah exclaimed. “I've got a good feeling about this, 4000:1!? We'll be rich!”

“We'll be broke!”

“Be quiet.” Jartor growled. “It's starting.”

–

Lucian bowed respectfully toward the opposite team, receiving a bow in return. The crowd was getting wild after the initial confusion. They'd seen the other 'celebrities' in the tournament fight, but no mortal alive had seen Lucian on the field of battle. Not once.

He was not an adventurer, but he did adventure. Always alone and out of sight. He didn't want fame, he wanted to find a way to become stronger beyond the ceiling he'd found himself at. Dragged here not by his own will, but by Octavian who insisted his services were required. Promising an 'interesting conclusion' to the event.

“Come.” Lucian said. That was it, and much to his joy – they did. All of them, and all at once. Companions in battle. Lucian remembered his old companions, long gone from this world. Even those who possessed the will and power to follow him down his path... Perhaps they'd been wiser, not choosing to do so. There was solace in death.

They fanned out around him, and Lucian remained in place, letting them strike as they pleased. Most of them, in actuality. He actively projected his spira to infringe on the magic of the Anu before it became a problem. That one in particular, courtesy of its strange artifact, was even more dangerous than the three individuals pummeling him... Not a threat, but he had a complicated view on Anu and future implications involving them.

Four...? Lucian tilted his head. They all moved so slowly, languid even in their frenzied attempt to take advantage of his aloof attitude. Only Tyr remained with sword sheathed, stalking the edges of the fight and trying to dislodge the influence of Lucian's spira. He barely noticed it, but the whopping four awakened ones. Two were still frail in a way that Tyr and the older westerner were not – but awakening the first time was always the hardest, without exception.

It was incredibly strange to see so many in one place. Perhaps he is not as foolish and impotent as Octavian believes. To have found these people, good friends are as potent a weapon as any other...

Another of them was exceedingly close to his awakening point as well. A titan of a man with the black skin of an Agoronian. Tall enough to stand eye to eye with Lucian himself, and his weapon was no less impressive. Each of them, mismatched as some of them were, were equipped in artifacts that could make an imperial legatus blush. Some of the artifacts were astral in nature, not so impressive – but the weapons most of them held were clearly hand forged by an incredibly talented smith.

I guess that would be him, too. With the help of Anu and that old monster... Anything is possible. Lucian smirked. He could barely feel their blows, his armor was too strong and the presence of his domain ensured that his bits of exposed flesh was as hard as all the rest. Sorry, little ones. I've seen enough.

He said that, but Tiber adjusted to the flowing energy with untold elegance – stepping beneath the wave of spira that made his team collapse, joined by a black eyed western man. Black with bits of silver that seemed to alternate in greater hue. They stood shoulder to shoulder, targeting the gaps of his armor with a roar.

A valiant effort, but just an effort. Lucian was impressed by the westerner, but it was their people who had taught him how to reach the point he had in the first place. The man before him with his massive club-sword was not a particularly skilled fighter, even if he was powerful. Lucian caught each of the men's blades in a hand each and swept them low. Just like the chimera in their last round, ensuring it all looked so dramatic.

Kicking each aside and to the rim of the arena lazily, laughing at how he'd so closely emulated that terrifying manticore in doing so.

That poor westerner, he didn't deserve to be embarrassed so, but here he was. The world was cruel and unfair like that. It was a favor to be taught how cruel it could truly be.

All that was left was the cacophonous roar of the crowd. And Tyr, still stalking. Waiting, fighting an invisible battle with Lucian through the spira. The 'sword saint' wasn't sure what to make of the boys movements at first, before coming to a realization.

There was an old art called the 'song'. Matched by the dance, whether it be blade, war, sword, arrow... A very unique and niche form of 'magic' all its own...

Tyr was actively engaging in the 'crimson lotus', even as he paced about inconspicuously. Using it to spin his spira faster and faster to make up for his lack of presence with wild momentum. Lucian smirked, sword still sheathed, and he bowed. Wondering how the boy had learned the original interpretation of the fire dance at all. It was awkward though, perhaps he hadn't, just now beginning to come to fruition.

“I heard there would be a complimentary face smacking today. If I remember correctly, it was by your invitation?” Lucian chuckled, smiling widely and egging the young man on.

Tyr didn't rise to the bait. He was cold and collected, a predator with focus whetted down to the finest edge possible. Dancing, using the time available to him to gather as much power as he could before he lost. To make a splash, and push as hard as he could.

They connected, and the howls of the crowd grew to a maddened peal.

Tyr choked back bloody spit as he felt his bones rattle within him. Lucian wasn't fast from an observers point of view, but he was strong.

He didn't need to be 'fast', he moved in such a way that Tyr suspected him of possessing some kind of clairvoyance. Mockingly slow motions made with every part of his body to always had the necessary part of it in the right place, at the exact right time. Every connection was a hammer on Tyr's joints as he willed his body beyond any limit he'd felt before. Aggravated that the man hadn't even drawn his sword.

Whipping slashes were met by elbows, knees, gauntlets, even the saints teeth. Stopping an incredibly powerful magical blade in its tracks.

Tyr couldn't match Lucian in anything. Not speed, power, or skill. As expected of the sword saint himself, that man who had defined an entire lifestyle and ambition of several generations of warriors.

Tyr was well aware that he was the same man regardless of the 'legacy' people spoke of. There was only one sword saint, there might never have been two in all of history. Someone who earned his abilities in the complete opposite of a primus, through effort and great sacrifice.

“Your father should be proud of you.” Lucian didn't mock the boy, but offered a genuine compliment. He didn't know what a primus was, only how they felt. Tyr didn't feel human, but he didn't feel like a primus either, not quite...

In any case, despite possessing far less power than Iscari – he'd actually done something with his life. Been places and seen things, achieved victories, struggled... He walked the same path that Lucian himself had in some ways. Only one who had would know, the path of conquest, revenge, trying to find themselves after losing everything. Their motivations beyond the question of purity were irrelevant, the journey was all that mattered, but Tyr still lacked that critical thing. “I know I would be.”

Tyr ignored him, ducking a sweep of Lucian's sheathed sword and ratting his own pair borne from Aska's body against the mans golden armor. As hard and fast as he could, beating him like a drum, but to no avail. Lucian's armor... It wasn't an artifact. Tyr was well convinced that it was an arcanum, no runes were present on its surface beyond the decoys, and it radiated raw unadulterated power.

A carapace so indomitable that no weapon he possessed could break it. It's gaps weren't gaps or segments, they were just pieces of an unknown material that remained soft and flexible as clay, hardening only at the moment of impact. An arcanum, the reflection of a persons soul only used by heroes and the saints above them.

“But this is as far as we go.” Lucian said, disobeying his primus for the first time in his life and seeking to end the battle immediately. He hadn't drawn his sword just yet, using it like a club with the sheathe still on it. Backing away into a crouching stance, blade held perpendicular to his waist. Lucian flicked the blade free with his thumb and brought that unique ability of his into public view for the first time in centuries.

Counter.

No more than three inches of the blade was visible, but that was enough. What had once been Tyr sprayed across the floor of the arena in a red torrent. All of the energy he'd expended on Lucian's armor being returned to him with twice the force. That was the great failing of man, in the eyes of the saint, their need to do everything. Lucian had only ever been good at one thing, the sword, and he'd perfected it to an inhuman degree such that he'd attracted the patronage of one god in particular. Aotrom, the Sunhammer.

“Good fight.” Lucian said, bowing at the mass of paste covering a one hundred and eight degree crescent around him. Barely a thumb or tooth to be seen, everything was just red paste, caught up in that crescent of retribution and destroyed until nothing larger than a fingernail was left.

And with that, he turned to leave.