Praise Be The Sun

As the rock was being reduced to a bubbly paste, Luma inspected the arena for clues. Surely there was a way to solve this problem, a path, some string that he could not yet see.

Afterall, the elders wouldn't just leave them for dead.

However, search as he may, he could not see any trace of water any where. Even the deathstalkers were not carrying their usual water containers.

By now the miniature sun was nearly at the centre of the ring, shining a bright light down on everything. And the deathstalkers were just two or three steps short of him.

His mind raced, he went into that trance he usually did when problems seemed out of reach. Every lesson he had ever been taught exploded through his mind, and he sifted them as they came, searching, willing the answer to reveal itself.

Yet frustration was all that he could find. Every possible solution a dead end.

The deathstalkers took another step forward, moving in their almost feline, predatory sort of way.

Fear turned his blood cold, he almost couldn't even feel the heat coming from below him. He could not explain it in words, but he could tell these deathstalkers were hungry for blood, his blood.

Just then another commotion began on the audience platform and he turned to look at what was going on.

It seemed that someone was shouting, but from all the way down here he could barely hear the singular voice.

The head silencer gave them a glance, however the shouting did not stop. Instead it spread amongst the crowd, and soon an entire column of adults were up shouting and raising their fists in protest.

"Alrakhem!"

That was all he could make out from their shouting. It was a parable taught to the youngest of the tribe, a tale of a mistreated child, a warning of the evils that could arise if elders did not treat the future generation with kindness.

Why are they bringing that up now? What's going on?

Luma tried to focus, to discern the rest of what they were saying. But the shouts came down to him as a jumbled echo of jibberish that only served to frustrate him even more.

What? Am I going to have to take on two deathstalkers at once?  he wondered. Is this actually what the test is about? 

Unlike normal members of the tribe, they didn't have mining artifices, so he had technological advantage. However these were men bred from the most violent the inferi had to offer, training from the moment they could stand.

Luma threw away the idea, it was suicide. No, the answer was here, he just had to keep searching.

The shouting from the platform grew louder, more chaotic, and Luma found that he could no longer focus on the task at hand.

Just why are they doing this?

The headwhisperer stared up at the commotion, slowly raising their golden had.

However before they could do anything another whisperer got onto the ledge of their platform. With one giant leap and a massive boom, they broke the section they were standing on and landed on the audience platform.

"Silence!" The words reverberated all the way down to the arena, making Luma's throat burn once more.

However this did not stop the shouting entirely. One man in particular, the oldest of the bunch seemed to grow even more restless after that.

The head instructor,  Luma realized. 

The whisperer held out their hand, pointing it right at the instructors face. A blue light bled out of their palm, dyeing the entire stand in its cold light.

No. Don't. You can't, Luma wanted to shout, however his mouth would not form the words. 

The head instructor continued shouting, pointing down at him, as he approached the whisperer. But all Luma could hear were the same words. "Alrakhem."

Stop!

It happened in a thundering flash. 

The whisperer said something in audible, and a loud crackle followed. A streak of blue beamed out of their palm, striking the instructors hand.

Blood splattered to the ground. 

The other adults in the stand watched in horror as the head instructor fell to his knees. Another inaudible whisper and the entire arena was bathed blue.

Luma's eyes became hot with tears. That man had basically been a father figure, where he had none to teach him the ways of a warrior, that was who had guided.

The world felt cold, and the screams of outrage voiced by the others on the audience platform seemed like muffled whispers to his ears.

Is this too, as the sun permits it?  he wondered, staring at the chief with blurried vision. He hoped that the chieftain would move to avenge his teacher. The tunnelers here outnumbered these whisperer's 6 to 1, so why did they remain silent?

The deathstalkers took another step forward, and now Luma could hear the eery crickling of their mechanical suits. The hum of their raizers like crackling static.

Time was up. The rock had finished processing, but without a base all was lost. 

Luma held his wrist up at one of the deathstalkers. They will pay for this,  he thought, the uncomfortable bite of the minig artifice grounding him in this moment.

Blood for blood.

This deathstalkers did not flinch at this. They had likely encountered much bigger threats, in less favourable conditions. To them, he was nothing more than a child airing his tantrums. He would use this weakness of their to his advantage.

However, hust then, as the miniature sun took its place at the centre of the arena, and the deathstalkers pulled back their raizers to attack, the answer came to him.

Blood.

He quickly pointed the artifice at his other hand.

"Program 1, scaling!" A thin blue beam surged out of the artifice right as the deathstalkers swung down on him. It tore through his flesh, a crippling pain rushing from his hand up till his arm.

"Stop!" a voice boomed from above, and Luma could feel his bones freeze in place.

His blood trickled down to the processed radiation, mixing in a cloud of fumes to create a floating blue liquid.

The deathstalkers raizers were just a hair's breadth away from his head. 

"The candidate has completed their task."