Black Magus

***

Edward Pascal.

***

First impressions can be deceiving.

That was my only thought after seeing His Grace return to the dojo and bend the students to his will in mere moments. In that instance, he exuded all of the qualities of High King Cole: a domineering presence, a keen intellect, and a magical signature that caused all who felt it to tremble in both awe and fear. In truth, I didn’t know what to expect when I first heard the students practically rioting from the halls outside. I only knew the profound moment of pride I was feeling from this opportunity had been rightly ruined.

His Grace, on the other hand, seemed as placid and indifferent as the moment I first met him. I wasn’t even sure he heard them in there screaming, in all honesty. But when he inquired High King Cole of the situation, it was like seeing a flip switch. But not like seeing a peaceful person driven to anger. It was like hearing a mute speak for the first time. The cold indifference I saw back in the library had been swapped with disgust, contempt, and annoyance mixed with what I felt to be a bit of amusement or otherwise a dangerous cocktail of body language and emotions that caused the entire floor of students to grow nervously still.

In all honesty, I had no reason to take part in the duels; I’d already decided to compete for the ‘engineer’ slot His Grace told us about, whatever that even was. At the same time, a part of me felt as if I had to test the unbridled arrogance displayed to me and every other student who called this place home. Not by His Grace, of course. but by that of Jaimess A. Corey. The boy who’d always had the smarter-than-thou attitude. Now that he returned, it seemed to have grown tenfold. So I waited. I watched with no surprise as Toril mopped the half-dozen opponents without the aid of anything other than his body.

What I was surprised by, however, were his movements. Devastatingly quick and fluid they were. Toril gracefully redirected or countered his opponent's strikes before attacking their vitals or limbs without remorse. Their chins, necks, eyes, armpits, and groins were punched, elbowed, kicked, and kneed before they were either choked, knocked out, or had their joints locked in elaborate holds that left them howling for the match to end.

To almost no one’s surprise, nearly half the class gathered around the ring when the bell tolled, signaling the start of Jaimess’ duels. To everyone's surprise, however, Jaimess did much the same to each and every one of them; including me. Only in a far more brutal fashion than Toril. After four of the weaker students all entered and hobble out of the ring, I slid inside the domain and bounded forth on the balls of my feet up to an otherwise neutral Jaimess. He simply stared at me with those condescending eyes as I moved into range and threw out my right arm toward his jaw. As if were nothing, he took a single step back before parrying my arm with a gentle slap. Suddenly, I was turning away from him; his arms were gripped around my shoulders; and before I could begin to react, my stomach imploded.

It felt like every organ in my torso had fallen into a vortex and regressed to its former state in just a single second. Sending overwhelming waves of nausea, vertigo, and sickness over my body. Through the pain and spotted blots in my vision, I saw Jaimess’ knee pulling away from me before the world turned, bringing a giant’s hammer to befall the entirety of my back before I found myself on the ground; watching a bruised fist cast a dark shadow over the dojo as it plummeted toward my eye.

---

I awoke to the sound of a tolling bell and a foul taste in my mouth. Ruefully, I staggered to a seated position to see Jaimess curtly leaving the ring before I assessed my new body features. Meanwhile, the innocent and petite girl waltzed into the ring with not a care in the world.

What followed next was as traumatizing as it was incredible.

Given her frame, it was easy to guess that those were traits that many of the students seemed all too eager to exploit. Driven by greed and a lust for a higher status, boys and girls of varying levels of strength crowded and practically fought each other around the ring before the bell tolled. The one who broke through was around the middle tiers of strength among the 1 percent of our class. The queen bee, the most-popular and self-proclaimed prettiest, Monica Woodard.

The girl- His Grace’s vassal, idly watched and hardly listened to Monica approaching with some misplaced apology and wild justification about why she deserved to serve His Grace. Conversely, the girl resolutely ignored her until she stepped into range, at which time she suddenly threw out a roundhouse toward Monica’s ribs. Monica reacted in an instant by quickly settling into her guard, bracing herself to easily catch the attack, and hold the leg in place under her arm; causing a rise in excitement from the gaggle of students surrounding them before the girl suddenly jumped, twisted and brought her remaining leg around in a wide arc. Driving her heel against the back of Monica’s skull with a loud smack.

Monica’s head rocked to the side before she teetered forward onto her knees. Still conscious, but hardly ready to oppose her opponent, coming to a graceful landing at her side.

Without delay, the girl mounted Monica and began raining fists down on the face she was so proud of. Relentlessly, repeatedly, the sounds of grunts, feral screams, and flesh smacking against bony flesh radiated from the ring as the girl continued her merciless beating. In desperation, Monica threw out her arms to claw or grab her opponent but the girl simply took hold of her wrist and wrapped her legs around Monica’s body before she violently leaned back. A bloodcurdling crack pierced the air in the next moment, preceding a horrid scream that was quickly silenced by a swift kick to the jaw.

Without so much as a deep breath, the slim, unassuming girl threw aside Monica’s crooked limb aside and returned to her feet to stare at the circle of horrified students. And for the remainder of the four minutes and fifty or so seconds of her duel, not a single student dared approach her.

Up on stage, High King Cole had been bursting at the seams with laughter the entire time; yet it didn’t give way until after the bell sounded, wherein the iconic, boisterous howl echoed alongside the dull tone and continued long after it stopped. Even after his laughter ceased, his face remained split in an ear-to-ear grin as he rose from his seat to give His Grace a few back-breaking pats. In turn, His Grace threw a visible scowl at the Necro King on the latter's way to the edge of the stage. “I don’t know whether to be immensely proud of my great-grandson, or ashamed of you all.” He paused to chuckle a bit softer; a bit more contemptuously. “Each of the Grand Duke’s vassals has just beaten you all without the aid of any magic or elemental manipulation whatsoever. All of you!” He cackled. “Many of you may be unaware of this.” He leaned forth over the edge of the stage, exuding his towering presence on the lot of us from wherever we were seated. “The Grand Duke of Odissi is self-taught in the art of martial combat. More so, Toril, Jaimess, and Jonet have trained under the Grand Duke himself. Brutal training. Every day for the last five years.”

‘Wait!’ I recoiled in shock. ‘His Grace trained them!?!’

I wouldn’t have believed the top students in the class had all lost in such a brutal fashion if I hadn’t just witnessed it myself. But to think that what I saw were the results of the Grand Duke’s tutelage was simply too much to comprehend. Doing something on your own was one thing. Teaching it to another was something else entirely. And the fact that we were the same age made it almost impossible to believe. Even being the Necro King’s great-grandson, I felt as if there was no possible way a ten-year-old could be that prodigious with fighting. Magic was almost a certainty regarding royalty, but martial prowess was another matter entirely. Of that, I was positive.

“Who here knows the difference between a warrior and a soldier?” His Grace asked from his seat, ripping my concentration away from my newfound trauma. “Any warrior classes that may or may not be notwithstanding, who here knows the difference? Hmm?” He pressed, rising from his seat to begin pacing and eying each of us individually. “I’ll tell you. The warrior is based on tradition. The warrior fights using traditional weapons. The warrior fights in the traditional garb of their people, singing traditional songs, hoping for a glorious end in battle so they may return to their ancestors or see whatever afterlife their tradition dictates. They fight to preserve this tradition, knowing that war is not what kills it.

“The soldier then, is based on principle.” He continued. “The soldier does not fight using tradition, for the soldier fights using whatever means is necessary. The soldier does not fight with one weapon, for the soldier knows there is the proper tool for each job, thus the soldier trains to become proficient in all tools. The soldier does not wear a standard set of clothes for the soldier knows that the clothes maketh the man. The soldier knows the unease born from them wearing a battle dress in a market square; just as the soldier knows the folly of arriving on the field of war in one’s undergarments. The soldier does not sing or dance before, during, or after the battle; nor do they believe they are fighting for a glorious end. The soldier fights because the soldier knows what must be paid to create and sustain a nation's people and ideals. Thus the soldier chooses to suffer so that others suffer not.

“I say that to say this. A soldier marches on their stomach.” He seemed to catch himself, as his head suddenly perked up before he turned to the High Necro King. “A living army, at least. At any rate, an army cannot fight and will not fight well without weapons to swing and armor to don. That is the true difference between a warrior and a soldier. A soldier is a professional member of an organization. A cog in the machine that understands they are simultaneously the most and the least important aspect of their organization. They understand there is far more to their success than the number of proficient fighters on their team. They are important, yes.” He nodded. “But infinitely more important are the builders who design their fortifications; the crafters who create their weapons; the teachers who teach recruits the ways of war; the farmers who feed them. All the people who strive to keep our society running the way that it does. The guild and subsequent empire I will one day create will be much the same. A place where the artisans, laborers, and teachers are as revered as generals and commanders. I need people skilled in all facets of society. For my guild will be composed of more than mere soldiers. My guild will be the best trained. The best equipped. The best fed. The most informed. The fittest, craftiest, most capable individuals in all the realms.

"My guild will be Legion." He declared with a cold grin. "My Legionaries will be legendary. But legendary, they cannot be without a legendary industry. Soldiers, they cannot be without logistics. Warriors, they cannot even be without a culture. And a warrior without a culture is no different than bandit trash. Understood?”

Y- yes, Your Grace.” Everyone; and I, muttered in shock.

“Good. You are dismissed.”