Reflections on the Warpath - [An Isekai Progression Fantasy]

1 day until the E grade advancement tournament.

Ezekiel flung his longsword into the wall. It sailed past his sparring partner's neck, barely missing him.

The sword's tip bent as it collided with the iron walls of his personal training space. The ringing metal corralled the room into silence. Ezekiel paced after his weapon, banging shoulders with his partner as he passed by him.

"Watch where you're swinging that thing Zeke! You almost hit me!" he said.

Shut up!

Ezekiel spun around. He glared at the weaselly man trying to puff up his chest and leaned in closer.

"I didn't realise gladiators were scared of cuts and bruises?" said Ezekiel, raising his hands in mock confusion. "Is that what you're gonna tell your opponent's during advancement? Waa-waa you're hurting me. Stop it."

Ezekiel turned back to get his sword.

Pathetic.

You make me sick.

This sword was handcrafted by one of the alliance's best smiths. He picked it up off the ground and looked down the length of its immaculately polished blade.

It's useless.

It's a useless, worthless, garbage, pathetic, heap of shit. I hate it. I hate it I hate it I ha-

"That doesn't mean you can just throw it at me after we called a stop to the round!"

The man had discovered a lick of courage.

Ezekiel watched the man's knees almost tremble as the brave façade began to wilt.

"Of course." said Ezekiel, his voice fading almost to a whisper. "I must have forgotten my manners somewhere. Manners, manners, manners. How rude of me. I apologise for my grave mishap in training etiquette…"

Ezekiel pounded his sword into the ground.

The end bent further.

"Manners, manners, manners. MANNERS! PLEASE TELL ME MORE ABOUT MY FUCKING MANNERS!"

He bludgeoned his sword again. And again. And again.

After a dozen failed attempts at splitting his sword in two, Ezekiel raised his now L shaped blade and threw it at the etiquette expert standing across from him.

It tumbled through the air. The man sidestepped it easily. He continued looking at Ezekiel.

He didn't dare say anything else.

"Leave. Now." said Ezekiel. He pointed towards the exit.

It looked like this junior wasn't suitable either. He hoped Amaya had found someone to be their teammate.

Someone with a brain.

Someone who can FUCKING listen!

The man turned to walk away.

He made it three steps before Ezekiel threw a knife at his neck.

The sweltering hallways of the Flaming Tomb Alliance leered at Ezekiel's as he walked towards the workshop, almost like they knew he needn't go there.

A helper stared down at her toes as she hurried past him. She dared not look up. Ezekiel noticed her pace quicken after sparing a glance at the droplets of blood marking his trail.

Finally, someone who knows their place.

Ezekiel ran his fingers against the stone tiles as he walked, wiping off the excess blood.

He hated stooping to such lows, but he knew the agony of inadequacy that came with losing a weapon.

His precious knives could never be replaced. He had to pull them out of the corpse's neck.

Before he reached Amaya's workshop, he wiped the rest of the blood onto his robes. Her private workshop was somehow even hotter than the rest of their headquarters, but Ezekiel put up with the sweltering heat and walked in, determined not to make a face.

A young apprentice turned his head up from his work.

He stared at Ezekiel.

"Where is she?" said the swordsman.

The apprentice kept staring. He held Ezekiel's gaze for a few seconds before shrugging and going back to his work.

Ezekiel bit down. He exhaled deeply, clenching his knuckles around his bent-in-half blade.

Not here…

Can't touch him here. It'd make a mess. Amaya would have to get it cleaned. It would waste her time.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

He exhaled again.

And the smug asshole probably knows it.

Only the sight of his partner stopped Ezekiel from turning back and murdering the insolent apprentice.

She looked beautiful.

A thick leather apron and gloves may have seemed out of place on any other woman. But not her. She wore the outfit with pride. Its practicality only added to her beauty. A tinted visor covered both her mechanical and biological eyes. Immaculate craftsmanship forging her two facets together.

Ezekiel caught himself. He shut his mouth and cleared his dry throat before greeting his partner.

"Good morning, Amaya. How are you today?"

She kept focused on her project, waiting a moment before sliding her visor onto her forehead.

Amaya's mechanical eye twisted towards Zeke while her biological one maintained its focus.

"What do you want?"

Pragmatic as always.

"Is the project complete?" asked Ezekiel. "I can't wait to see their faces when they see it."

"Unfortunately not." Amaya replied.

She left the conversation there, before pulling off her visor and turning to Zeke.

"It won't be complete until the Luminary tournament. And you're not to talk about it before then. The first time they see it will be on the battlefield."

Her stern words shot down Ezekiel's hope, but he listened.

"Will you walk with me to the coliseum?" he asked.

Amaya made him wait.

"Yes. Wait outside. I'll join you in a few minutes."

She slid her visor back on and returned to her work.

Ezekiel walked out of her workshop with his head held slightly higher than when he walked in.

Amaya glanced back down at her project, wishing she'd completed it before advancement.

Simply not meant to be.

Amaya's aide made sure the door was bolted shut before walking over to her and glancing down at the project.

"That guy is such a creep. I don't know why you put up with him."

"Hmm."

Amaya couldn't tell the young man why she put up with this stupid, spiteful alliance. The young gossip would spread it to the whole Flaming Tomb in hours.

"Watch his fights and tell me if you'd rather fight with him or against him."

"Fair enough. Is your work going well?"

Aren't you supposed to be helping me? Shouldn't you know yourself?

"As well as it can, considering the circumstances. I thought it was more of a carapace, but it turns out… Never mind."

He didn't need to know the details. He didn't deserve to.

Amaya removed her visor and hung up her apron and gloves.

At least the equipment's high quality…

She looked at the expansive workshop the Flaming Tomb Alliance had given her. At the reinforced entranceway door, the man behind it, and finally at the aide gawking beside her.

…Shame the people aren't.

Ezekiel was the only person here on her level. At least, in a combat sense. The poor man wasn't the sharpest tool in the box. In fact, he'd probably been left outside the box to rust for a bit as a child. But Amaya didn't dwell on him for long.

He was an adequate partner.

For now at least.

Amaya had thrown her lot in with this alliance before she'd known about their pathetic blood feud, or the pettiness of their leader. She wasn't in too deep to leave yet, but she wasn't deep enough to leave honourably either.

All in due time…

Akira stood in front of his swords. He applied the final coat of oil onto Jiki, before inspecting the black blade one final time. The blade's powers had shifted, reshaped by a new wielder's hand. The essence of absorption manifested in radically different ways between him and Ezekiel.

Akira wondered what kind of sword the Soulsnatcher would bring to advancement.

The thoughts lingered for but a moment as Akira slid Jiki into his newly acquired sheath. He clipped the crossguard into an iron clasp that he'd crafted himself to ensure the handle didn't fall into the spatial quiver.

Buying the Orivian silk shirt had almost bankrupted Akira. But, as he walked back to his bedroom and admired the floor to ceiling mirror by his closet, he decided it was all worth it. Jiki's handle poked out beside his waist. He drew her out again, he couldn't resist, and marvelled at the sleek but imposing blade emerging from seemingly nowhere.

Holy shit this is so fricking cool.

Akira re-sheathed his sword. His smile faded as he realised what she represented. He wouldn't be needing her in battle today. She was there as a reminder.

To the world, that they had already won once.

To himself, of why he was fighting.

He tightened his kimono. This one was red and silver, to match with Jay.

Akira didn't love the colour scheme, but the Orivian silk shirt was the only new item of clothing that his friend had bought in the last month. If their group wanted to match, then he had to be the one to change.

Lyra simply rolled her eyes when Akira told her about his idea, but she agreed in the end.

Today would have less fanfare than the actual start of the tournament, but the right eyes would still be watching.

Might as well look good.

Jay waited at a table in front of the Celestial Swords. The morning sunlight crashed into the weaved iron façade as he clenched and unclenched his fist, waiting for his friends. He spotted a crow perched atop a nearby rooftop, although he didn't look in its direction.

Lyra arrived first, joining him with little more than a silent nod. Akira came a few minutes later.

The trio walked together up Reveller's Avenue, each processing the day individually. Today they would find out what awaited them tomorrow.

Lyra had spent countless hours devising strategies for situations almost guaranteed never to occur.

Jay hadn't stopped her, but he'd never joined in.

Regardless of the bells and whistles attached. He was stepping into a fight.

He wasn't going to spend any time preparing for a maze, a war game, or treasure hunt. He wasn't a general, he was a fighter.

The pavilion overflowed with an unusually large crowd. Jay felt their expectant eyes latch onto him and his friends.

Keep watching… thought Jay, reigning in his racing thoughts behind a stone-cold smoulder.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you'll see.

The crowd only thickened until Jay reached a partition near Chronicler's Avenue. Past the frontline of spectators, Jay saw a few familiar faces. Fox, Alf, and Tia smiled at them and Akira waved back.

As the trio walked into the sectioned off zone that Jay assumed was for gladiators entering the tournament only. Jay spotted Zara, Tarik, and Roshan emerge from the other side of the crowd.

He didn't see anyone from the Flaming Tomb.

Lyra pointed to their right, to the front section. The part closest to the coliseum. She walked over and Jay followed her, glancing up at the statue of the unnamed gladiator as he turned away from the crowds.

They weren't here to mingle.

With every second that ticked by, the anxious hum of the crowd grew ever louder. Devoid of words but packed with excitement.

But when a figure exited the coliseum, it stopped.

Instantly.

The man didn't walk beneath the legs of the unnamed gladiator. He flew. Colossal wings, easily spanning over six metres, packed with brilliant white feathers longer than Jay's forearms spread out from him. Gently lapping the air while he floated a few inches off the ground.

He wore polished steel armour that distorted the crowd's image and reflected it back at them. It coated his entire body except his wings. His helmet was shaped like a lion, with a gold plated mane extending out like a corona of light around his head.

The joints of his metal clinked against each other as he raised his arms to his neck. He grasped his helmet and slowly raised his arms and pulled it off before holding it in one hand by his side. He had dark brown, almost black, skin, no hair, and surveyed the silenced crowd with a stern, unforgiving gaze.

The man's amber eyes flittered slightly; they met Jay's for a split second before moving on.

After an agonising few seconds, he stopped. He flapped his wings once and rose three metres up into the air. Finally, he smiled and met the salivating crowd.

"Are you ready?"