Master of the Loop

Chapter 194

Skies Bear Witness

Two men stood some twenty feet from each other, surrounded by hundreds of curious eyes, both from Sylas’ and Staun’s camp. The atmosphere was heavy, especially for the prisoners as they have learned that should their General win, they would be freed. Such proposition was something they didn’t even dream of just a few moments ago, and yet it became such a violent reality so quickly.

They knew the man who led them well--below the magic-suffused monsters, there was no man or woman in the Kingdom who could contest the General. Even those partly infused with magic couldn’t defeat him. He had been a soldier since he was nine, and had led armies since he was seventeen. Wars and battles and near-death moments have chiseled and forged him into a perfect weapon that had never lost a duel, official or otherwise.

On the other end, the man he was facing looked more like a beggar rather than a soldier. Eerily, the man was topless and barefoot, wearing only shabby, tattered pants that barely crossed his knees. He had unkempt hair and rough beard, and was currently inspecting an ordinary-looking iron blade. Despite the general rough appearance, something was strange about the beggar.

The lack of clothes revealed the body that appeared forged by battles, too. The man’s shoulders were wide and robust and his arms seemed larger than some men’s thighs. He was on the taller end of things, and appeared to be gifted such countenance by the gods themselves. Even still, none doubted their General.

General Staun inspected the sword just briefly to see if it had been tinkered with--to his surprise, it was not. It was his own sword, forged some sixteen years ago by late smith V’anar whose weapons are some of the greatest to exist in the Kingdom. It was a long blade, its handle a perfect fit to Staun’s grip, its weight adjustable by the gem-magic, and its sturdiness absolutely unmatched. It had killed hundreds of men and there was nary a chip upon its surface.

Looking forward, he saw the beggar-looking man inspecting the sword as well for a moment before his eyes turned forward. The pair shone resplendently, the General realized. In that flicker, there was no doubt, there was no excitement, there was no expectation... there was nothing. There was only apathy, the General saw. The dead of the man who had seemingly seen everything there is to see. There wasn’t even an assurance of victory in them, as though it was the way of nature that he would win. Par for the course.

While he would be enraged at being dismissed so openly in every other moment in his life, for reasons he couldn’t comprehend... Staun couldn’t kindle any rage within him. His heart refused, and his instincts stirred in silence. In fact, it appeared as though they were even unaware that he was about to battle for the lives of tens of thousands of his men.

“Are you both ready?” the Prince was the overseer alongside the constables and Av, set upon a surrounding ridge overlooking the quickly-fashioned arena.

“Aye,” Sylas replied simply while the General nodded, twisting into a stance for charging. On the other hand, the former held the sword to the ground with one hand, relaxed, full of openings, as though inviting death to give it a fair attempt.

“Begin!” the Prince’s signal came and Staun charged forward like a ram, roaring. His men cheered, rocking the ground. Even when he was upon the man, Staun realized, the beggar didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. And neither did Staun.

“Idiot!” he exclaimed as he shoved the blade into the beggar’s gut. The blood sprayed immediately after, indicating a clean hit. Just as he was about to rejoice in the easy victory and swell within the cheers of his men, he looked up. The face that was supposed to be twisted in pain was faintly smiling, the gentle wind belting the straying hair in a strange symphony. It was a sight that Staun knew he would never forget, not until the day he died.

He twisted the sword and pushed further in, but the man didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. He didn’t even yelp or blink or give up the smiling expression. It was as though there wasn’t a sword piercing him whole, entering from the front and exiting out the back.

“Six hundred and forty-four times,” the man said suddenly in a low whisper so that only Staun could hear him.

“W-what?” Staun stuttered, pulling out the sword and putting it up for guard, ready to retaliate.

“That’s how many times I died from a similar wound,” the man said pointing at the gashing wound near his gut. As Staun followed the finger, his soul froze. Where is it?!! Was it--was it an illusion?! No, no! I definitely felt it! It was real!

There was no wound there. There was blood, but it had stopped flowing and the wound had closed up... as though it was never there. Staun began to shiver and shake, a feeling that he hadn’t felt in decades surging through him like a world-ending storm--fear. He felt afraid. No, the feeling was beyond simple field. He was mortified to his bones. So much so that he couldn’t move an inch of his body. He couldn’t speak. He could only look away from the wound and into the beggar’s eyes. They were still clear, void of anything. Hollow. Empty. Ascended.

“It used to hurt. A lot,” the man continued to whisper, cleaning the blood by his free hand and looking at it. “I’d die out of pure shock initially. Like a storming current burnin’ through me in a second. Then, I’d last a bit longer. Agonizingly so, if I can admit. It came a point where I’d just cleanly shave my neck rather than wait to bleed out. The last time I died from it... it took eight agonizing, long days in the snow while I couldn’t move a muscle since my spine was broken. I must profess something to you, General Stone,” the man smiled gently. “I cheated you a bit. You never stood a chance. In fact, we fought once before. Not in a duel, but still. You bravely charged me, trying to protect your men. When I saw that... I knew that I had to recruit you, no matter what. Someone like you is wasted on the rot.

“And so, I apologize for lying to you. Don’t think of this as a duel, though. Think of it as a demonstration. I can no longer die,” he added softly, lifting the sword up and gently pressing it against Staun’s neck. The latter didn’t even register the cold iron pressing against his flesh. “Not by means of the ordinary, anyway. But I cannot live forever, either. And a day will come when I’ll have to leave the Prince’s side, though desperate he may be for that to not happen. And when that day comes... I wish to leave him in the best hands possible, so that he may rule and reign without having to put out fires on every corner. I already told you, General. We are not rebels. We are a purifying force riding through the Kingdom to rid it of its ails before the Prince takes its worthy Crown. I’m sure that a man of your stature can see and attest to that... and join us in our crusade. Can’t you?”

“... y-yes,” Staun stuttered weakly, wanting only for the moment to pass and for the air that had begun suffocating him to ease up.

“Good!” the man exclaimed, pulling back the sword and with it the ethereal pressure that was crushing the General’s back. “I surrender!” he exclaimed suddenly to the shock of virtually everyone present. “I’m completely bent and exhausted and in a desperate need of a proper shit! The salient General withstood my vicious attack and savagely defeated me! Ah, cruel fate. I’ve lost us so much money. You are all free to return to your homes! You can stay, though, if you want! One benefit is that you can take crap whenever you want! Cheers!” and thusly the Prophet sped off. While those unfamiliar with the strange man were beyond flabbergasted, beginning with why he surrendered when he was clearly winning, down to outright nonsense he began spewing after the fact, those who did know Sylas merely sighed, with a few smirks escaping here and there.

That was always his goal, Valen realized. To ensure that whoever did join them did so entirely out of pure want. And to achieve that he engraved an image in their head--that of a man standing above their general, looking down upon the figure they all but worshiped... and smiling. And yet, somehow, through all of that, he managed to save the General’s dignity, dragging away attention from that and onto himself and his inane antics. Valen always knew there was method to the Prophet’s lunacy, but it was becoming more and more evident recently. Perhaps, the Prince mused in the depths of his soul, a man who would be a Prophet would make the best King.